v 


POEMS 


BY 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

0 


COLLECTED   AND   ARRANGED 


BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOL, 


PHILADELPHIA : 
A.  HART,  LATE   CAREY  &  HART, 

No.  126  CEIESTNCT  STREET. 

18-31. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847,  by 

W.  C.  BRYANT, 
In  tht  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of  Neio  York 


Printed  by  T.  K.  &  P.  G.  Collins. 
Stereotyped  by  L.  Johnson  &  Co.,  Philadelphia. 


TO    THE    HEADER. 


PERHAPS  it  would  have  been  well  if  the  author  had 
followed  his  original  intention,  which  was  to  leave  out 
of  this  volume,  as  unworthy  of  republication,  several  of 
the  poems  which  made  a  part  of  his  previous  collections. 
He  asks  leave  to  plead  the  judgment  of  a  literary  friend, 
whose  opinion  in  such  matters  he  highly  values,  as  his 
apology  for  having  retained  them.  With  the  exception 
of  the  first  and  longest  poem  in  the  collection,  "The 
Ages,"  they  are  all  arranged  according  to  the  order  of 
time  in  which  they  were  written,  as  far  as  it  can  be 
ascertained. 

New  York,  1846. 


861609 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS.  Poge 

The  Ages 17 

Thanatopsis 32 

The  Yellow  Violet 36 

Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood 38 

Song. — "  Soon  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow"   .     .  40 

To  a  Waterfowl 41 

Green  River 43 

A  Winter  Piece 46 

The  West  Wind 51 

The  Burial-place.     A  Fragment 53 

Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn 56 

No  Man  knoweth  his  Sepulchre 58 

A  Walk  at  Sunset 59 

Hymn  to  Death 62 

The  Massacre  at  Scio 69 

The  Indian  Girl's  Lament 70 

Ode  for  an  Agricultural  Celebration 73 

Rizpah     .     .          75 

The  Old  Man's  Funeral 79 

The  Rivulet 81 

March 85 

Sonnet. — To 87 

An  Indian  Story 88 

Summer  Wind 92 

A3  5 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS.  Page 

An  Indian  at  the  Burial-place  of  his  Fathers  ....  94 

Song. — "  Dost  thou  idly  ask  to  hear" 98 

Hymn  of  the  Waldenses 100 

"""""•^  Monument  Mountain 102 

After  a  Tempest 108 

Autumn  Woods Ill 

Sonnet. — Mutation 114 

Sonnet. — November 115 

Song  of  the  Greek  Amazon 116 

To  a  Cloud 118 

The  Murdered  Traveller 120 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star 122 

The  Lapse  of  Time 124 

Song  of  the  Stars 127 

A  Forest  Hymn 130 

"  Oh  fairest  of  the  rural  maids" 135 

"  I  broke  the  spell  that  held  me  long" 136 

June 137 

A  Song  of  Pitcairn's  Island 140 

The  Skies 142 

"  I  cannot  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion"  ....  145 

To  a  Musquito 147 

Lines  on  Revisiting  the  Country 151 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers 153 

Romero 155 

A  Meditation  on  Rhode  Island  Coal 158 

The  New  Moon 163 

Sonnet. — October 165 

The  Damsel  of  Peru 166 

The  African  Chief >    V  ^  T  .     •  168 

Spring  in  Town 171 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS.  ra?c 

The  Gladness  of  Nature 174 

The  Disinterred  Warrior 175 

Sonnet. — Midsummer 177 

The  Greek  Partisan 178 

The  Two  Graves 180 

The  Conjunction  of  Jupiter  and  Venus 181 

A  Summer  Ramble 188 

Scene  on  the  Banks  of  the  Hudson 191 

The  Hurricane 193 

Sonnet. — William  Tell 196 

The  Hunter's  Serenade 197 

The  Greek  Boy 200 

The  Past 202 

"Upon  the  mountain's  distant  head'* 205 

The  Evening  Wind 206 

"  When  the  firmament  quivers  with  daylight's  young 

beam" 208 

"  Innocent  child  and  snow-white  flower" 210 

To  the  River  Arve 211 

Sonnet. — To  Cole,  the  Painter,  departing  for  Europe  213" 

To  the  fringed  Gentian 214 

The  Twenty-second  of  December 215 

Hymn  of  the  City 216 

The  Prairies 218 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 223 

The  Arctic  Lover 226 

The  Journey  of  Life 228 

TRANSLATIONS. 

Version  of  a  Fragment  of  Simonides 231 

From  the  Spanish  of  Villegas 233 


CONTENTS. 


TRANSLATIONS.  Page 
Mary  Magdalen.  (From  the  Spanish  of  Bartolome 

Leonardo  de  Argensola) 334 

The  Life  of  the  Blessed.  (From  the  Spanish  of  Luis 

Ponce  de  Leon) 236 

Fatima  and  Raduan.  (From  the  Spanish)  ....  338 

Love  and  Folly.  (From  La  Fontaine) 240 

The  Siesta.  (From  the  Spanish) 242 

The  Alcayde  of  Molina.  (From  the  Spanish)  .  .  .  244 

The  Death  of  Aliatar.  (From  the  Spanish)  ....  246 
Love  in  the  Age  of  Chivalry.  (From  Peyre  Vidal,  the 

Troubadour) 250 

The  Love  of  God.  (From  the  Provencal  of  Bernard 

Rascas) 252 

From  the  Spanish  of  Pedro  de  Castro  y  Anaya  .  .  .  253 

Sonnet.  (From  the  Portuguese  of  Semedo  ....  255 

Song.  (From  the  Spanish  of  Iglesias) 256 

The  Count  of  Greiers.  (From  the  German  of  Uhland)  258 

The  Serenade.  (From  the  Spanish) 261 

A  Northern  Legend.  (From  the  German  of  Uhland)  .  264 

LATER  POEMS. 

To  the  Apennines 269 

Earth 272 

The  Knight's  Epitaph 277 

The  Hunter  of  the  Prairies 280 

Seventy-Six 283 

The  Living  Lost 285 

Catterskill  Falls 287 

The  Strange  Lady 292 

Life      ....     '.;,:£,;,L  ;*i.';;.  ,^;>; ...</£-.  ,;   -r    .  295 

"  Earth's  children  cleave  to  earth"  .     J  •  298 


CONTENTS. 


LATER  POEMS.  Page 

The  Hunter's  Vision 299 

The  Green  Mountain  Boys 302 

A  Presentiment 304 

The  Child's  Funeral 306 

The  Battlefield 309 

The  Future  Life 312 

The  Death  of  Schiller 314 

The  Fountain 316 

The  Winds 322 

The  Old  Man's  Counsel 326 

Lines  in  Memory  of  William  Leggett 330 

An  Evening  Revery 331 

The  Painted  Cup 334 

A  Dream 336 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom     ...          339 

The  Maiden's  Sorrow 342 

The  Return  of  Youth .344 

A  Hymn  of  the  Sea .  346 

Noon.     (From  an  unfinished  Poem) 349 

The  Crowded  Street 352 

The  White-footed  Deer 355 

The  Waning  Moon 359 

The  Stream  of  Life 361 

NOTES  363 


',  :    :">*.•">> 

POEMS. 


THE  AGES. 

i. 

WHEN  to  the  common  rest  that  crowns  our  days, 
Called  in  the  noon  of  life,  the  good  man  goes, 
Or  full  of  years,  and  ripe  in  wisdom,  lays 
His  silver  temples  in  their  last  repose  ; 
When,  o'er  the  buds  of  youth,  the  death- wind  blows, 
And  blights  the  fairest ;  when  our  bitter  tears 
Stream,  as  the  eyes  of  those  that  love  us  close, 
We  think  on  what  they  were,  with  many  fears 
Lest  goodness  die  with  them,  and  leave  the  coming  years. 

ii. 

And  therefore,  to  our  hearts,  the  days  gone  by, — 
When  lived  the  honoured  sage  whose  death  we  wept, 
And  the  soft  virtues  beamed  from  many  an  eye, 
And  beat  in  many  a  heart  that  long  has  slept, — 

B  3  IT 


18  POEMS. 


Like  spots  of  earth  where  angel-feet  have  stepped — 
Are  holy ;  and  high- dreaming  bards  have  told 
Of  times  when  wrorth  was  crowned,  and  faith  was  kept, 
,E,ie -.friendship  grew  a  snare,  or  love  waxed  cold — 
Those  pure  and  happy  times — the  golden  days  of  old. 

in. 

Peace  to  the  just  man's  memory, — let  it  grow 
Greener  with  years,  and  blossom  through  the  flight 
Of  ages  ;  let  the  mimic  canvas  show 
His  calm  benevolent  features  ;  let  the  light 
Stream  on  his  deeds  of  love,  that  shunned  the  sight 
Of  all  but  heaven,  and  in  the  book  of  fame, 
The  glorious  record  of  his  virtues  write, 
And  hold  it  up  to  men,  and  bid  them  claim 
A  palm  like  his,  and  catch  from  him  the  hallowed  flame. 

IV. 

But  oh,  despair  not  of  their  fate  who  rise 
To  dwell  upon  the  earth  when  we  withdraw ! 
Lo  !  the  same  shaft  by  which  the  righteous  dies, 
Strikes  through  the  wretch  that  scoffed  at  mercy's  law, 
And  trode  his  brethren  down,  and  felt  no  awe 
Of  Him  who  will  avenge  them.     Stainless  worth, 
Such  as  the  sternest  age  of  virtue  saw, 
Ripens,  meanwhile,  till  time  shall  call  it  forth 
From  the  low  modest  shade,  to  light  and  bless  the  earth. 


THE    AGES.  19 

v. 

Has  Nature,  in  her  calm,  majestic  march 
Faltered  with  age  at  last  ?  does  the  bright  sun 
Grow  dim  in  heaven  ?  or,  in  their  far  blue  arch, 
Sparkle  the  crowd  of  stars,  when  day  is  done, 
Less  brightly?  when  the  dew-lipped  Spring  comes  on, 
Breathes  she  with  airs  less  soft,  or  scents  the  sky 
With  flowers  less  fair  than  when  her  reign  begun  ? 
Does  prodigal  Autumn,  to  our  age,  deny 
The  plenty  that  once  swelled  beneath  his  sober  eye  ? 

VI. 

Look  on  this  beautiful  world,  and  read  the  truth 
In  her  fair  page  ;  see,  every  season  brings 
New  change,  to  her,  of  everlasting  youth ; 
Still  the  green  soil,  with  joyous  living  things, 
Swarms,  the  wide  air  is  full  of  joyous  wings, 
And  myriads,  still,  are  happy  in  the  sleep 
Of  ocean's  azure  gulfs,  and  where  he  flings 
The  restless  surge.     Eternal  Love  doth  keep 
In  his  complacent  arms,  the  earth,  the  air,  the  deep. 

VII. 

Will  then  the  merciful  One,  who  stamped  our  race 
With  his  own  image,  and  who  gave  them  sway 
O'er  earth,  and  the  glad  dwellers  on  her  face, 
Now  that  our  swarming  nations  far  away 


20  POEMS. 


Are  spread,  where'er  the  moist  earth  drinks  the  day, 
Forget  the  ancient  care  that  taught  and  nursed 
His  latest  offspring  ?  will  he  quench  the  ray 
Infused  by  his  own  forming  smile  at  first, 
And  leave  a  work  so  fair  all  blighted  and  accursed  ? 

VIII. 

Oh,  no !  a  thousand  cheerful  omens  give 
Hope  of  yet  happier  days,  whose  dawn  is  nigh. 
He  who  has  tamed  the  elements,  shall  not  live 
The  slave  of  his  own  passions ;  he  whose  eye 
Unwinds  the  eternal  dances  of  the  sky, 
And  in  the  abyss  of  brightness  dares  to  span 
The  sun's  broad  circle,  rising  yet  more  high, 
In  God's  magnificent  works  his  will  shall  scan — 
And  love  and  peace  shall  make  their  paradise  with  man. 

IX. 

Sit  at  the  feet  of  history — through  the  night 
Of  years  the  steps  of  virtue  she  shall  trace, 
And  show  the  earlier  ages,  where  her  sight 
Can  pierce  the  eternal  shadows  o'er  their  face ; — 
When,  from  the  genial  cradle  of  our  race, 
Went  forth  the  tribes  of  men,  their  pleasant  lot 
To  choose,  where  palm-groves  cooled  their  dwelling-place. 
Or  freshening  rivers  ran ;  and  there  forgot 
The  truth  of  heaven,  and  kneeled  to  gods  that  heard  them  not. 


T  H  E    A  G  E  S.  21 


x. 

Then  waited  not  the  murderer  for  the  night, 
But  smote  his  brother  down  in  the  bright  day, 
And  he  who  felt  the  wrong,  and  had  the  might, 
His  own  avenger,  girt  himself  to  slay ; 
Beside  the  path  the  unburied  carcass  lay ; 
The  shepherd,  by  the  fountains  of  the  glen, 
Fled,  while  the  robber  swept  his  flock  away, 
And  slew  his  babes.     The  sick,  untended  then, 
Languished  in  the  damp  shade,  and  died  afar  from  men. 

XI.    ' 

But  misery  brought  in  love — in  passion's  strife 
Man  gave  his  heart  to  mercy,  pleading  long, 
And  sought  out  gentle  deeds  to  gladden  life ; 
The  weak,  against  the  sons  of  spoil  and  wrong, 
Banded,  and  watched  their  hamlets,  and  grew  strong. 
States  rose,  and,  in  the  shadow  of  their  might, 
The  timid  rested.     To  the  reverent  throng, 
Grave  and  time- wrinkled  men,  with  locks  all  white, 
Gave  laws,  and  judged  their  strifes,  and  taught  the  way  of  right; 

XII. 

Till  bolder  spirits  seized  the  rule,  and  nailed 
On  men  the  yoke  that  man  should  never  bear, 
And  drove  them  forth  to  battle.     Lo  !  unveiled 
The  scene  of  those  stern  ages !     What  is  there ! 


22  POEMS. 


A  boundless  sea  of  blood,  and  the  wild  air 
Moans  with  the  crimson  surges  that  entomb 
Cities  and  bannered  armies ;  forms  that  wear 
The  kingly  circlet  rise,  amid  the  gloom, 
O'er  the  dark  wave,  and  straight  are  swallowed  in  its  womb 

XIII. 

Those  ages  have  no  memory — but  they  left 
A  record  in  the  desert — columns  strown 
On  the  waste  sands,  and  statues  fallen  and  cleft, 
Heaped  like  a  host  in  battle  overthrown ; 
Vast  ruins,  where  the  mountain's  ribs  of  stone 
Were  hewn  into  a  city ;  streets  that  spread 
In  the  dark  earth,  where  never  breath  has  blown 
Of  heaven's  sweet  air,  nor  foot  of  man  dares  tread 
The  long  and  perilous  ways — the  Cities  of  the  Dead : 

XIV. 

And  tombs  of  monarchs  to  the  clouds  up-piled — 
They  perished — but  the  eternal  tombs  remain — 
And  the  black  precipice,  abrupt  and  wild, 
Pierced  by  long  toil  and  hollowed  to  a  fane  ; — 
Huge  piers  and  frowning  forms  of  gods  sustain 
The  everlasting  arches,  dark  and  wide, 
Like  the  night-heaven,  when  clouds  are  black  with  rain. 
But  idly  skill  was  tasked,  and  strength  was  plied, 
All  was  the  work  of  slaves  to  swell  a  despot's  pride. 


T  H  E    A  G  E  S. 


xv. 

And  Virtue  cannot  dwell  with  slaves,  nor  reign 
O'er  those  who  cower  to  take  a  tyrant's  yoke ; 
She  left  the  down-trod  nations  in  disdain, 
And  flew  to  Greece,  when  Liberty  awoke, 
New-born,  amid  those  glorious  vales,  and  broke 
Sceptre  and  chain  with  her  fair  youthful  hands : 
As  rocks  are  shivered  in  the  thunder-stroke. 
And  lo!  in  full-grown  strength,  an  empire  stands 
Of  leagued  and  rival  states,  the  wonder  of  the  lands. 

XVI. 

Oh,  Greece !  thy  flourishing  cities  were  a  spoil 
Unto  each  other ;  thy  hard  hand  oppressed 
And  crushed  the  helpless ;  thou  didst  make  thy  soil 
Drunk  with  the  blood  of  those  that  loved  thee  best ; 
And  thou  didst  drive,  from  thy  unnatural  breast, 
Thy  just  and  brave  to  die  in  distant  climes ; 
Earth  shuddered  at  thy  deeds,  and  sighed  for  rest 
From  thine  abominations  ;  after  times, 
That  yet  shall  read  thy  tale,  will  tremble  at  thy  crimes. 

XVII. 

Yet  there  was  that  within  thee  which  has  saved 
Thy  glory,  and  redeemed  thy  blotted  name  ; 
The  story  of  thy  better  deeds,  engraved 
On  fame's  unmouldering  pillar,  puts  to  shame 


24  POEMS. 


Our  chiller  virtue  ;  the  high  art  to  tame 
The  whirlwind  of  the  passions  was  thine  own  ; 
And  the  pure  ray,  that  from  thy  bosom  came, 
Far  over  many  a  land  and  age  has  shone, 
And  mingles  with  the  light  that  beams  from  God's  own  throne 

XVIII. 

And  Rome — thy  sterner,  younger  sister,  she 
Who  awred  the  world  with  her  imperial  frown — 
Rome  drew  the  spirit  of  her  race  from  thee, — 
The  rival  of  thy  shame  and  thy  renown. 
Yet  her  degenerate  children  sold  the  crown 
Of  earth's  wide  kingdoms  to  a  line  of  slaves  ; 
Guilt  reigned,  and  wo  with  guilt,  and  plagues  came  down, 
Till  the  north  broke  its  floodgates,  and  the  waves 
Whelmed  the  degraded  race,  and  weltered  o'er  their  graves. 

XIX. 

Vainly  that  ray  of  brightness  from  above, 
That  shone  around  the  Galilean  lake, 
The  light  of  hope,  the  leading  star  of  love, 
Struggled,  the  darkness  of  that  day  to  break ; 
Even  its  own  faithless  guardians  strove  to  slake, 
In  fogs  of  earth,  the  pure  immortal  flame ; 
And  priestly  hands,  for  Jesus'  blessed  sake, 
Were  red  with  blood,  and  charity  became, 
In  that  stern  war  of  forms,  a  mockery  and  a  name. 


Til  E    AGES.  25 


XX. 

They  triumphed,  and  less  bloody  rites  were  kept 
Within  the  quiet  of  the  convent  cell ; 
The  well-fed  inmates  pattered  prayer,  and  slept, 
And  sinned,  and  liked  their  easy  penance  well. 
Where  pleasant  was  the  spot  for  men  to  dwell, 
Amid  its  fair  broad  lands  the  abbey  lay, 
Sheltering  dark  orgies  that  were  shame  to  tell, 
And  cowled  and  barefoot  beggars  swarmed  the  way, 
All  in  their  convent  weeds,  of  black,  and  white,  and  gray. 

XXI. 

Oh,  sweetly  the  returning  muses'  strain 
Swelled  over  that  famed  stream,  whose  gentle  tide 
In  their  bright  lap  the  Etrurian  vales  detain, 
Sweet,  as  when  winter  storms  have  ceased  to  chide, 
And  all  the  new-leaved  woods,  resounding  wide, 
Send  out  wild  hymns  upon  the  scented  air. 
Lo !  to  the  smiling  Arno's  classic  side 
The  emulous  nations  of  the  west  repair, 
And  kindle  their  quenched  urns,  and  drink  fresh  spirit  there 

XXJI. 

Still,  Heaven  deferred  the  hour  ordained  to  rend 
From  saintly  rottenness  the  sacred  stole  ; 
And  cowl  and  worshipped  shrine  could  still  defend 
The  wretch  with  felon  stains  upon  his  soul ; 


26  POEMS. 


And  crimes  were  set  to  sale,  and  hard  his  dole 
Who  could  not  bribe  a  passage  to  the  skies ; 
And  vice,  beneath  the  mitre's  kind  control, 
Sinned  gaily  on,  and  grew  to  giant  size, 
Shielded  by  priestly  power,  and  watched  by  priestly  eyes 

XXIII. 

At  last  the  earthquake  came — the  shock,  that  hurled 
To  dust,  in  many  fragments  dashed  and  strown, 
The  throne,  whose  roots  were  in  another  world, 
And  whose  far-stretching  shadow  awed  our  own. 
From  many  a  proud  monastic  pile,  o'erthrown, 
Fear-struck,  the  hooded  inmates  rushed  and  fled ; 
The  web,  that  for  a  thousand  years  had  grown 
O'er  prostrate  Europe,  in  that  day  of  dread 
Crumbled  and  fell,  as  fire  dissolves  the  flaxen  thread. 

XXIV. 

The  spirit  of  that  day  is  still  awake, 
And  spreads  himself,  and  shall  not  sleep  again ; 
But  through  the  idle  mesh  of  power  shall  break 
Like  billows  o'er  the  Asian  monarch's  chain ; 
Till  men  are  filled  with  him,  and  feel  how  vain, 
Instead  of  the  pure  heart  and  innocent  hands, 
Are  all  the  proud  and  pompous  modes  to  gain 
The  smile  of  heaven ; — till  a  new  age  expands 
Its  white  and  holy  wings  above  the  peaceful  lands. 


THEAGES.  27 


XXV. 

For  look  again  on  the  past  years  ; — behold, 
How  like  the  nightmare's  dreams  have  flown  away 
Horrible  forms  of  worship,  that,  of  old, 
Held,  o'er  the  shuddering  realms,  unquestioned  sway : 
See  crimes,  that  feared  not  once  the  eye  of  day, 
Rooted  from  men,  without  a  name  or  place : 
See  nations  blotted  out  from  earth,  to  pay 
The  forfeit  of  deep  guilt ; — with  glad  embrace 
The  fair  disburdened  lands  welcome  a  nobler  race. 

XXVI. 

Thus  error's  monstrous  shapes  from  earth  are  driven ; 
They  fade,  they  fly — but  truth  survives  their  flight ; 
Earth  has  no  shades  to  quench  that  beam  of  heaven  ; 
Each  ray  that  shone,  in  early  time,  to  light 
The  faltering  footsteps  in  the  path  of  right, 
Each  gleam  of  clearer  brightness  shed  to  aid 
In  man's  maturer  day  his  bolder  sight, 
All  blended,  like  the  rainbow's  radiant  braid, 
Pour  yet,  and  still  shall  pour,  the  blaze  that  cannot  fade. 

XXVII. 

Late,  from  this  western  shore,  that  morning  chased 
The  deep  and  ancient  night,  that  threw  its  shroud 
O'er  the  green  land  of  groves,  the  beautiful  waste, 
Nurse  of  full  streams,  and  lifler-up  of  proud 


28  POEMS. 


Sky-mingling  mountains  that  o'erlook  the  cloud. 
Erewhile,  where  yon  gay  spires  their  brightness  rear, 
Trees  waved,  and  the  brown  hunter's  shouts  were  loud 
Amid  the  forest ;  and  the  bounding  deer 
Flecl  at  the  glancing  plume,  and  the  gaunt  wolf  yelled  near 
f  ."»•  • 

XXVIII. 

And  where  his  willing  waves  yon  "bright  blue  bay 
Sends  up,  to  kiss  his  decorated  brim, 
And  cradles,  in  his  soft  embrace,  the  gay 
Young  group  of  grassy  islands  born  of  him, 
And  crowding  nigh,  or  in  the  distance  dim, 
Lifts  the  white  throng  of  sails-,  that  bear  or  bring 
The  commerce  of  the  wrorld  ; — with  tawny  limb, 
And  belt  and  beads  in  sunlight  glistening, 
The  savage  urged  his  skiff  like  wild  bird  on  the  wing. 

XXIX. 

Then  all  this  youthful  paradise  around, 
And  all  the  broad  and  boundless  mainland,  lay 
Cooled  by  the  interminable  wood,  that  frowned 
O'er  mount  and  vale,  where  never  summer  ray 
Glanced,  till  the  strong  tornado  broke  his  way 
Through  the  gray  giants  of  the  sylvan  wild ; 
Yet  many  a  sheltered  glade,  with  blossoms  gay, 
Beneath  the  showery  sky  and  sunshine  mild, 
Within  the  shaggy  arms  of  that  dark  forest  smiled. 


T  H  E    A  G  E  S.  29 


xxx. 

There  stood  the  Indian  hamlet,  there  the  lake 
Spread  its  blue  sheet  that  flashed  with  many  an  oar, 
Where  the  brown  otter  plunged  him  from  the  brake, 
And  the  deer  drank :  as  the  light  gale  flew  o'er, 
The  twinkling  maize-field  rustled  on  the  shore ; 
And  while  that  spot,  so  wild,  and  lone,  and  fair, 
A  look  of  glad  and  guiltless  beauty  wore, 
And  peace  was  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
The  warrior  lit  the  pile,  and  bound  his  captive  there : 

xxxr. 

Not  unavenged — the  foeman,  from  the  wood, 
Beheld  the  deed,  and  when  the  midnight  shade 
Was  stillest,  gorged  his  battle-axe  with  blood ; 
All  died — the  wailing  babe — the  shrieking  maid — 
And  in  the  flood  of  fire  that  scathed  the  glade, 
The  roofs  went  down  ;  but  deep  the  silence  grew, 
WTien  on  the  dewy  woods  the  day-beam  played ; 
No  more  the  cabin  smokes  rose  wreathed  and  blue, 
And  ever,  by  their  lake,  lay  moored  the  light  canoe. 

XXXII. 

Look  now  abroad — another  race  has  filled 
These  populous  borders — wide  the  wood  recedes j 
And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled  : 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads ; 

c  2 


30  POEMS. 


Streams  numberless,  that  many  a  fountain  feeds, 
Shine,  disembowered,  and  give  to  sun  and  breeze 
Their  virgin  waters  ;  the  full  region  leads 
New  colonies  forth,  that  toward  the  western  seas 
Spread,  like  a  rapid  flame  among  the  autumnal  trees. 

XXXJII. 

Here  the  free  spirit  of  mankind,  at  length, 
Throws  its  last  fetters  off;  and  who  shall  place 
A  limit  to  the  giant's  unchained  strength, 
Or  curb  his  swiftness  in  the  forward  race ! 
Far,  like  the  comet's  way  through  infinite  space, 
Stretches  the  long  untravelled  path  of  light, 
Into  the  depths  of  ages  :  we  may  trace, 
Distant,  the  brightening  glory  of  its  flight, 
Till  the  receding  rays  are  lost  to  human  sight. 

xxxiv.  „ 

Europe  is  given  a  prey  to  sterner  fates, 
And  writhes  in  shackles ;  strong  the  arms  that  chain 
To  earth  her  struggling  multitude  of  states  ; 
She  too  is  strong,  and  might  not  chafe  in  vain 
Against  them,  but  might  cast  to  earth  the  train 
That  trample  her,  and  break  their  iron  net. 
Yes,  she  shall  look  on  brighter  days  and  gain 
The  meed  of  worthier  deeds ;  the  moment  set 
To  rescue  and  raise  up,  draws  near — but  is  not  yet. 


T  II  E    A  G  E  S.  31 


XXXV. 

But  thou,  my  country,  tliou  shalt  never  fall, 
Save  with  thy  children— thy  maternal  care, 
Thy  lavish  love,  thy  blessings  showered  on  all— 
These  are  thy  fetters — seas  and  stormy  air 
Are  the  wide  barrier  of  thy  borders,  where, 
Among  thy  gallant  sons  that  guard  thee  well, 
Thou  laugh'st  at  enemies :  who  shall  then  declare 
The  date  of  thy  deep-founded  strength,  or  tell 
How  happy,  in  thy  lap,  the  sons  of  men  shall  dwell  ? 


33  POEMS. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stem  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air, — 
Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 


T  II  A  N  A  T  O  P  S  I  S.  33 


Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 

And,  lost,  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. — The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 


34  POEMS. 


Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning — and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregan,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet — the  dead  are  there : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest — and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
Unheeded  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favourite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come. 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 


THANATOPSIS.  35 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


36  POEMS. 


THE  YELLOW  VIOLET. 

WHEN  beechen  buds  begin  to  swell, 

And  woods  the  blue-bird's  warble  know, 

The  yellow  violet's  modest  bell 

Peeps  from  the  last  year's  leaves  below. 

Ere  russet  fields  their  green  resume, 
Sweet  flower,  I  love,  in  forest  bare, 

To  meet  thee,  when  thy  faint  perfume 
Alone  is  in  the  virgin  air. 

Of  all  her  train,  the  hands  of  Spring 

First  plant  thee  in  the  watery  mould, 
And  I  have  seen  thee  blossoming 
•    Beside  the  snow-bank's  edges  cold. 

Thy  parent  sun,  who  bade  thee  view 
Pale  skies,  and  chilling  moisture  sip, 

Has  bathed  thee  in  his  own  bright  hue, 
And  streaked  with  jet  thy  glowing  lip. 


THEVELLOW    VIOLET.  37 

Yet  slight  thy  form,  and  low  thy  seat, 

And  earthward  bent  thy  gentle  eye, 
Unapt  the  passing  view  to  meet, 

When  loftier  flowers  are  flaunting  nigh. 

Oft,  in  the  sunless  April  day, 

Thy  early  smile  has  stayed  my  walk ; 

But  midst  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  May, 
I  passed  thee  on  thy  humble  stalk. 

So  they,  who  climb  to  wealth,  forget 

The  friends  in  darker  fortunes  tried. 
I  copied  them— but  I  regret 

That  I  should  ape  the  ways  of  pride, 

And  when  again  the  genial  hour 

Awakes  the  painted  tribes  of  light, 
I'll  not  o'erlook  the  modest  flower 

That  made  the  woods  of  April  bright. 


38  POEMS. 


INSCBIPTION  FOR  THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A  WOOD 

STRANGER,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which  needs 

No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 

Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 

Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares, 

To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood 

And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.     The  calm  shade 

Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet  breeze 

That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a  balm 

To  thy  sick  heart.     Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here 

Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men 

And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.     The  primal  curse 

Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth, 

But  not  in  vengeance.     God  hath  yoked  to  guilt 

Her  pale  tormentor,  misery.     Hence,  these  shades 

Are  still  the  abodes  of  gladness  ;  the  thick  roof 

Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 

And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 

In  wantonness  of  spirit ;  while  below 

The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 

Chirps  merrily.     Throngs  of  insects  in  the  shade 


INSCRIPTION.  39 

Try  their  thin  wings  and  dance  in  the  warm  beam 

That  waked  them  into  life.     Even  the  green  trees 

Partake  the  deep  contentment ;  as  they  bend 

To  the  soft  winds,  the  sun  from  the  blue  sky 

Looks  in  and  sheds  a  blessing  on  the  scene. 

Scarce  less  the  cleft-born  wild-flower  seems  to  enjoy 

Existence,  than  the  winged  plunderer 

That  sucks  its  sweets.     The  massy  rocks  themselves, 

And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate  trees 

That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll  a  causey  rude 

Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots, 

With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 

Breathe  fixed  tranquillity.     The  rivulet 

Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  tripping  o'er  its  bed 

Of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks, 

Seems,  with  continuous  laughter,  to  rejoice 

In  its  own  being.     Softly  tread  the  marge, 

Lest  from  her  midway  perch  thou  scare  the  wren 

That  dips  her  bill  in  water.     The  cool  wind, 

That  stirs  the  stream  in  play,  shall  come  to  thee, 

Like  one  that  loves  thee  nor  will  let  thee  pass 

Ungreeted,  and  shall  give  its  light  embrace. 


40  POEMS. 


SONG. 

SOON  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow 
Reflects  the  day-dawn  cold  and  clear, 

The  hunter  of  the  west  must  go 

In  depth  of  woods  to  seek  the  deer. 

His  rifle  on  his  shoulder  placed, 

His  stores  of  death  arranged  with  skill, 

His  moccasins  and  snow-shoes  laced, — 
Why  lingers  he  beside  the  hill  ? 

Far,  in  the  dim  and  doubtful  light, 
Where  woody  slopes  a  valley  leave, 

He  sees  what  none  but  lover  might, 
The  dwelling  of  his  Genevieve. 

And  oft  he  turns  his  truant  eye, 
And  pauses  oft,  and  lingers  near ; 

But  when  he  marks  the  reddening  sky, 
He  bounds  away  to  hunt  the  deer. 


TO    A    WATERFOWL.  41 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

D  9 


42  POEMS. 


All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  wray  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


G  R  E  E  N    R  I  V  E  R.  43 


GEEEN   RIVEE. 

WHEN  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene. 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green, 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink ; 
And  they,  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through, 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 


Yet  pure  its  waters — its  shallows  are  bright 
With  coloured  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 
And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 
And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 
The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 
Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the  hill, 
The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 


44  POEMS. 


With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 
Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond  stone. 
Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 
With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild  bees'  hum ; 
The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 
And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air ; 
And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 
In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 

Yet  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  shunnest  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream !  by  the  village  side  ; 
But  windest  awray  from  haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen ; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still. 
Lonely — save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides  ; 
Or  the  simpler  comes  with  basket  and  book, 
For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look  ; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me, 
"To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee. 
Still — save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed, 
And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  and  fairy  shout, 
From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day, 
Like  traveller  singing  along  his  way. 


GREEN    RIVER.  45 

That  fairy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor  gaze  on  those  waters  so  green  and  clear, 
And  mark  them  winding  away  from  sight. 
Darkened  with  shade  or  flashing  with  light, 
While  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket  clings, 
And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart ; 
And  I  envy  thy  stream,  as  it  glides  along, 
Through  its  beautiful  banks  in  a  trance  of  song. 

Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs  of  men, 
And  scrawl  strange  words  with  the  barbarous  pen, 
And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd, 
Where  the  sons  of  strife  are  subtle  and  loud— 
I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place, 
To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face, 
And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dream, 
For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream 
An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears 
That  won  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 


46  POEMS. 


A  WINTEE  PIECE. 

THE  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 
Yet  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 
Oftener  than  now ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 
Had  chafed  my  spirit — when  the  unsteady  pulse 
Beat  wTith  strange  flutterings — I  would  wander  forth 
And  seek  the  woods.     The  sunshine  on  my  path 
Was  to  me  as  a  friend.     The  swelling  hills, 
The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between, 
With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 
Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society 
That  talked  with  me  and  soothed  me.     Then  the  chant 
Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 
Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 
The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I  began 
To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink, 
And  lose  myself  in  day-dreams.     While  I  stood 
In  nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 
With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 
Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 
Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole 


A  W  1  N  T  E  R    P  I  E  C  E.  47 

From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  world 

Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her.     When  shrieked 

The  bleak  November  winds,  and  smote  the  woods. 

And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the  shades, 

That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet, 

Were  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still, — they  seemed 

Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 

Still  there  was  beauty  in  my  walks ;  the  brook, 

Bordered  with  sparkling  frost-work,  was  as  gay 

As  with  its  fringe  of  summer  flowers.     Afar, 

The  village  with  its  spires,  the  path  of  streams, 

And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 

By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 

Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar  haunts 

Seemed  new  to  me.     Nor  was  I  slow  to  come 

Among  them,  when  the  clouds,  from  their  still  skirts, 

Had  shaken  down  on  earth  the  feathery  snow, 

And  all  was  white.     The  pure  keen  air  abroad, 

Albeit  it  breathed  no  scent  of  herb,  nor  heard 

Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee, 

Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses  crept 

Over  the  spotted  trunks,  and  the  close  buds, 

That  lay  along  the  boughs,  instinct  with  life, 

Patient,  and  waiting  the  soft  breath  of  Spring, 

Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North. 

The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough, 

And  'neath  the  hemlock,  whose  thick  branches  bent 


48  POEMS. 


Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and  kept  dry 
A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves, 
The  partridge  found  a  shelter.     Through  the  snow 
The  rabbit  sprang  away.     The  lighter  track 
Of  fox,  and  the  racoon's  broad  path,  were  there, 
Crossing  each  other.     From  his  hollow  tree, 
The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering  the  nuts 
Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and  sway 
Of  winter  blast,  to  shake  them  from  their  hold. 

But  Winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes, — he  boasts 
Splendours  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer  knows ; 
Or  Autumn  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 
All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Come  when  the  rains 
Have  glazed  the  snow,  and  clothed  the  trees  with  ice ; 
While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 
Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.     Approach ! 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 
And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome  thy  entering.     Look !  the  massy  trunks 
Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  each  light  spray, 
Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 
Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 
That  stream  with  rainbow  radiance  as  they  move. 
But  round  the  parent  stem  the  long  low  boughs 
Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbours  hide 
The  glassy  floor.     Oh !  you  might  deem  the  spot 


A   \V  I  N  T  E  K    P  I  E  C  E.  49 

The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 
Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth — where  the  gems  grow, 
And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 
With  amethyst  and  topaz — and  the  place 
Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 
That  dwells  in  them.     Or  haply  the  vast  hall 
Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 
And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun  ; — 
Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 
And  crossing  arches ;  and  fantastic  aisles 
Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are  lost 
Among  the  crowded  pillars.     Raise  thine  eye, — 
Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault ; 
There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 
Look  in.     Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 
Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 
And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air, 
And  all  their  sluices  sealed.     All,  all  is  light ; 
Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall  pass  away 
With  the  next  sun.     From  numberless  vast  trunks, 
Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 
Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 
Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont. 

And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  noisy  streams 
Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 
The  plashy  snow,  save  only  the  firm  drift 


50  POP:  M  s. 


In  the  deep  glen  or  the  close  shade  of  pines, — 
'Tis  pleasant  to  behold  the  wreaths  of  smoke 
Roll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  shrill  sound  of  youthful  voices  wakes 
The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 
That  from  the  wounded  trees,  in  twinkling  drops, 
Falls,  mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn, 
Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and  oft, 
Wielded  by  sturdy  hands,  the  stroke  of  axe 
Makes  the  woods  ring.     Along  the  quiet  air, 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the  soft  light  clouds, 
Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  arid  the  winds 
Scarce  stir  the  branches.     Lodged  in  sunny  cleft, 
Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just  opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at — 
Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds  shall  oft 
Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds 
Shade  heaven,  and  bounding  on  the  frozen  earth 
Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores  rounded  like  hail, 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North  again 
Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forest  in  his  rage. 


T  II  K    W  KST    W  I  N  D.  51 


THE  WEST   WIND. 

BENEATH  the  forest's  skirts  I  rest, 

Whose  branching  pines  rise  dark  and  high, 
And  hear  the  breezes  of  the  West 

Among  the  threaded  foliage  sigh. 

Sweet  Zephyr !  why  that  sound  of  woe  ? 

Is  not  thy  home  among  the  flowers : 
Do  not  the  bright  June  roses  blow, 

To  meet  thy  kiss  at  morning  hours  ? 

And  lo !  thy  glorious  realm  outspread — 
Yon  stretching  valleys,  green  and  gay, 

And  yon  free  hill-tops,  o'er  whose  head 
The  loose  white  clouds  are  borne  away. 

And  there  the  full  broad  river  runs, 

And  many  a  fount  wells  fresh  and  sweet, 

To  cool  thee  when  the  mid- day  suns 

Have  made  thee  faint  beneath  their  heat. 


52  POEMS. 


Thou  wind  of  joy,  and  youth,  and  love ; 

Spirit  of  the  new- wakened  year ! 
The  sun  in  his  blue  realm  above 

Smooths  a  bright  path  when  thou  art  here. 

In  lawns  the  murmuring  bee  is  heard, 
The  wooing  ring-dove  in  the  shade ; 

On  thy  soft  breath,  the  new-fledged  bird 
Takes  wing,  half  happy,  half  afraid. 

Ah !  thou  art  like  our  wayward  race  ; — 
When  not  a  shade  of  pain  or  ill 

Dims  the  bright  smile  of  Nature's  face, 
Thou  lovest  to  sigh  and  murmur  still. 


THE    BURIAL.  PLACE.  53 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE. 


A    FRAGMENT. 


EREWHILE,  on  England's  pleasant  shores,  our  sires 
Left  not  their  churchyards  unadorned  with  shades 
Or  blossoms ;  and  indulgent  to  the  strong 
And  natural  dread  of  man's  last  home,  the  grave, 
Its  frost  and  silence — they  disposed  around, 
To  soothe  the  melancholy  spirit  that  dwelt 
Too  sadly  on  life's  close,  the  forms  and  hues 
Of  vegetable  beauty. — There  the  yew, 
Green  even  amid  the  snows  of  winter,  told 
Of  immortality,  and  gracefully 
The  willow,  a  perpetual  mourner,  drooped ; 
And  there  the  gadding  woodbine  crept  about, 
And  there  the  ancient  ivy.     From  the  spot 
Where  the  sweet  maiden,  in  her  blossoming  years 
Cut  off,  was  laid  with  streaming  eyes,  and  hands 
That  trembled  as  they  placed  her  there,  the  rose 
Sprung  modest,  on  bowed  stalk,  and  better  spoke 
Her  graces,  than  the  proudest  monument. 

B2 


54  POEMS. 


There  children  set  about  their  playmate's  grave 
The  pansy.     On  the  infant's  little  bed, 
Wet  at  its  planting  with  maternal  tears, 
Emblem  of  early  sweetness,  early  death, 
Nestled  the  lowly  primrose.     Childless  dames, 
And  maids  that  would  not  raise  the  reddened  eye- 
Orphans,  from  whose  young  lids  the  light  of  joy 
Fled  early, — silent  lovers,  who  had  given 
All  that  they  lived  for  to  the  arms  of  earth, 
Came  often,  o'er  the  recent  graves  to  strew 
Their  offerings,  rue,  and  rosemary,  and  flowers. 

The  pilgrim  bands  who  passed  the  sea  to  keep 
Their  Sabbaths  in  the  eye  of  God  alone, 
In  his  wide  temple  of  the  wilderness, 
Brought  not  these  simple  customs  of  the  heart 
With  them.     It  might  be,  while  they  laid  their  dead 
By  the  vast  solemn  skirts  of  the  old  groves, 
And  the  fresh  virgin  soil  poured  forth  strange  flowers 
About  their  graves ;  and  the  familiar  shades 
Of  their  own  native  isle,  and  wonted  blooms, 
And  herbs  were  wanting,  which  the  pious  hand 
Might  plant  or  scatter  there,  these  gentle  rites 
Passed  out  of  use.     Now  they  are  scarcely  known, 
And  rarely  in  our  borders  may  you  meet 
The  tall  larch,  sighing  in  the  burying-place, 
Or  willow,  trailing  low  its  boughs  to  hide 


THE    B  UttI  AL-PL  A  0  E. 


55 


The  gleaming  marble.     Naked  rows  of  graves 

And  melancholy  ranks  of  monuments 

Are  seen  instead,  where  the  coarse  grass,  between, 

Shoots  up  its  dull  green  spikes,  and  in  the  wind 

Hisses,  and  the  neglected  bramble  nigh, 

Offers  its  berries  to  the  schoolboy's  hand, 

In  vain — they  grow  too  near  the  dead.     Yet  here, 

Nature,  rebuking  the  neglect  of  man, 

Plants  often,  by  the  ancient  mossy  stone, 

The  brier  rose,  and  upon  the  broken  turf 

That  clothes  the  fresher  grave,  the  strawberry  vine 

Sprinkles  its  swell  with  blossoms,  and  lays  forth 

Her  ruddy,  pouting  fruit.     *     *     *     *     * 


56  POEMS. 


"BLESSED  ARE   THEY   THAT  MOURN. 

•»    .  .  •. .  -  '•   * ,  >  * 

S  ;  V        - 

OH,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone 
Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep  ; 

The  Power  who  pities  man,  has  shown 
A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears ; 

And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  years. 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

*""x 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night ; 

And  grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest, 

But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

And  thou,  who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low  bier, 
Sheddest  the  bitter  drops  like  rain, 

Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 


"BLESSED   ARE  THEY  THAT  MOURN."     57 


Nor  let  the  good  man's  trust  depart, 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny, — 

Though  with  a  pierced  and  broken  heart, 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  has  marked  each  sorrowing  day 
And  numbered  every  secret  tear, 

And  heaven's  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 


58  POEMS. 


"NO   MAN   KNOWETH   HIS   SEPULCHRE." 

WHEN  he,  who,  from  the  scourge  of  wrong, 

Aroused  the  Hebrew  tribes  to  fly. 
Saw  the  fair  region,  promised  long, 

And  bowed  him  on  the  hills  to  die  ; 

God  made  his  grave,  to  men  unknown, 
Where  Moab's  rocks  a  vale  infold, 

And  laid  the  aged  seer  alone 

To  slumber  while  the  world  grows  old. 

Thus  still,  whene'er  the  good  and  just 
Close  the  dim  eye  on  life  and  pain, 

Heaven  watches  o'er  their  sleeping  dust 
Till  the  pure  spirit  comes  again. 

Though  nameless,  trampled,  and  forgot, 

His  servant's  humble  ashes  lie, 
Yet  God  has  marked  and  sealed  the  spot. 

To  call  its  inmate  to  the  sky. 


A   W  A  L  K    A  T    S  U  N  S  E  T.  59 


A  WALK  AT   SUNSET. 

WHEN  insect  wings  are  glistening  in  the  beam 

Of  the  low  sun,  and  mountain-tops  are  bright, 
Oh,  let  me,  by  the  crystal  valley- stream, 

Wander  amid  the  mild  and  mellow  light ; 
And  while  the  wood-thrush  pipes  his  evening  lay, 
Give  me  one  lonely  hour  to  hymn  the  setting  day. 

• 
Oh,  sun !  that  o'er  the  western  mountains  now 

Goest  down  in  glory  !  ever  beautiful 
And  blessed  is  thy  radiance,  whether  thou 

Colourest  the  eastern  heaven  and  night-mist  cool, 
Till  the  bright  day-star  vanish,  or  on  high 
Climbest  and  streamest  thy  white  splendours  from  mid-sky, 

Yet,  loveliest  are  thy  setting  smiles,  and  fair, 

Fairest  of  all  that  earth  beholds,  the  hues 
That  live  among  the  clouds,  and  flush  the  air, 

Lingering  and  deepening  at  the  hour  of  dewf. 
Then  softest  gales  are  breathed,  and  softest  heard 
The  plaining  voice  of  streams,  and  pensive  note  of  bird. 


60  POEMS. 


They  who  here  roamed,  of  yore,  the  forest  wide, 

Felt,  by  such  charm,  their  simple  bosoms  won ; 
They  deemed  their  quivered  warrior,  when  he  died, 

Went  to  bright  isles  beneath  the  setting  sun  ; 
Where  winds  are  aye  at  peace,  and  skies  are  fair, 
And  purple-skirted  clouds  curtain  the  crimson  air. 

So,  with  the  glories  of  the  dying  day, 

Its  thousand  trembling  lights  and  changing  hues, 
The  memory  of  the  brave  who  passed  away 
Tenderly  mingled  ; — fitting  hour  to  muse 
On  such  grave  theme,  and  sweet  the  dream  that  shed 
Brightness  and  beauty  round  the  destiny  of  the  dead. 

v  • 
For  ages,  on  the  silent  forests  here, 

Thy  beams  did  fall  before  the  red  man  came 
To  dwell  beneath  them ;  in  their  shade  the  deer 

Fed,  and  feared  not  the  arrow's  deadly  aim. 
Nor  tree  was  felled,  in  all  that  world  of  woods, 
Save  by  the  beaver's  tooth,  or  winds,  or  rush  of  floods. 

J.         N  »          , 

Then  came  the  hunter  tribes,  and  thou  didst  look, 

For  ages,  on  their  deeds  in  the  hard  chase, 
And  well-fought  wars  ;  green  sod  and  silver  brook 

Took  the  first  stain  of  blood  ;  before  thy  face 
The  warrior  generations  came  and  passed, 
And  glory  was  laid  up  for  many  an  age  to  last. 


A   WALK    ATSUNSET.  61 


Now  they  are  gone,  gone  as  thy  setting  blaze 

Goes  down  the  west,  while  night  is  pressing  on, 
And  with  them  the  old  tale  of  better  days, 

And  trophies  of  remembered  power,  are  gone. 
Yon  field  that  gives  the  harvest,  where  the  plough 
Strikes  the  white  bone,  is  all  that  tells  their  story  now 

I  stand  upon  their  ashes  in  thy  beam, 

The  offspring  of  another  race,  I  stand, 
Beside  a  stream  they  loved,  this  valley  stream ; 

And  where  the  night-fire  of  the  quivered  band 
Showed  the  gray  oak  by  fits,  and  war-song  rung, 
I  teach  the  quiet  shades  the  strains  of  this  new  tongue. 

Farewell !  but  thou  shalt  come  again — thy  light 

Must  shine  on  other  changes,  and  behold 
The  place  of  the  thronged  city  still  as  night — 

States  fallen — new  empires  built  upon  the  old— 
But  never  shalt  thou  see  these  realms  again 
Darkened  by  boundless  groves,  and  roamed  by  savage  men 


POEMS. 


HYMN   TO  DEATH. 

OH  !  could  I  hope  the  wise  and  pure  in  heart 

Might  hear  my  song  without  a  frown,  nor  deem 

My  voice  unworthy  of  the  theme  it  tries, — 

I  would  take  up  the  hymn  to  Death,  and  say 

To  the  grim  power,  The  world  hath  slandered  thee 

And  mocked  thee.     On  thy  dim  and  shadowy  brow 

They  place  an  iron  crown,  and  call  thee  king 

Of  terrors,  and  the  spoiler  of  the  world, 

Deadly  assassin,  that  strik'st  down  the  fair, 

The  loved,  the  good — that  breathest  on  the  lights 

Of  virtue  set  along  the  vale  of  life, 

And  they  go  out  in  darkness.     I  am  come, 

Not  witn  reproaches,  not  with  cries  and  prayers, 

Such  as  have  stormed  thy  stern,  insensible  ear 

From  the  beginning.     I  am  come  to  speak 

Thy  praises.     True  it  is,  that  I  have  wept 

Thy  conquests,  and  may  weep  them  yet  again : 

And  thou  from  some  I  love  wilt  take  a  life 

Dear  to  me  as  my  own.     Yet  while  the  spell 

Is  on  my  spirit,  and  I  talk  with  thee 


HYMN    TO    DEATH.  03 


In  sight  of  all  thy  trophies,  face  to  face, 
Meet  is  it  that  my  voice  should  utter  forth 
Thy  nobler  triumphs  ;  I  will  teach  the  world 
To  thank  thee. — Who  are  thine  accusers? — Who? 
The  living! — they  who  never  felt  thy  power, 
And  know  thee  not.     The  curses  of  the  wretch 
Whose  crimes  are  ripe,  his  sufferings  when  thy  hand 
Is  on  him,  and  the  hour  he  dreads  is  come, 
Are  writ  among  thy  praises.     But  the  good — 
Does  he  whom  thy  kind  hand  dismissed  to  peace, 
Upbraid  the  gentle  violence  that  took  off 
His  fetters,  and  unbarred  his  prison  cell  ? 

Raise  then  the  hymn  to  Death.     Deliverer ! 
God  hath  anointed  thee  to  free  the  oppressed 
And  crush  the  oppressor.     When  the  armed  chief, 
The  conqueror  of  nations,  walks  the  world, 
And  it  is  changed  beneath  his  feet,  and  all 
Its  kingdoms  melt  into  one  mighty  realm — 
Thou,  while  his  head  is  loftiest  and  his  heart 
Blasphemes,  imagining  his  own  right  hand 
Almighty,  thou  dost  set  thy  sudden  grasp 
Upon  him,  and  the  links  of  that  strong  chain 
That  bound  mankind  are  crumbled  ;  thou  dost  break 
Sceptre  and  crown,  and  beat  his  throne  to  dust. 
Then  the  earth  shouts  with  gladness,  and  her  tribes 
Gather  within  their  ancient  bounds  again. 


POEMS. 


Else  had  the  mighty  of  the  olden  time, 

Nimrod,  Sesostris,  or  the  youth  who  feigned 

His  birth  from  Libyan  Ammon,  smitten  yet 

The  nations  with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  driven 

Their  chariot  o'er  our  necks.     Thou  dost  avenge, 

In  thy  good  time,  the  wrongs  of  those  who  know 

No  other  friend.     Nor  dost  thou  interpose 

Only  to  lay  the  sufferer  asleep, 

Where  he  who  made  him  wretched  troubles  not 

His  rest — thou  dost  strike  down  his  tyrant  too. 

Oh,  there  is  joy  when  hands  that  held  the  scourge 

Drop  lifeless,  and  the  pitiless  heart  is  cold. 

Thou  too  dost  purge  from  earth  its  horrible 

And  old  idolatries  ; — from  the  proud  fanes 

Each  to  his  grave  their  priests  go  out,  till  none 

Is  left  to  teach  their  worship  ;  then  the  fires 

Of  sacrifice  are  chilled,  and  the  green  moss 

O'ercreeps  their  altars;  the  fallen  images 

Cumber  the  weedy  courts,  and  for  loud  hymns, 

Chanted  by  kneeling  multitudes,  the  wind 

Shrieks  in  the  solitary  aisles.     When  he 

Who  gives  his  life  to  guilt,  and  laughs  at  all 

The  laws  that  God  or  man  has  made,  and  round 

Hedges  his  seat  with  power,  and  shines  in  wealth, — 

Lifts  up  his  atheist  front  to  scoff  at  Heaven, 

And  celebrates  his  shame  in  open  day, 

Thou,  in  the  pride  of  all  his  crimes,  cutt'st  off 


HYMN    TO    DEATH.  65 


The  horrible  example.     Touched  by  thine, 

The  extortioner's  hard  hand  foregoes  the  gold 

Wrung  from  the  o'er-worn  poor.     The  perjurer, 

Whose  tongue  was  lithe,  e'en  now,  and  voluble 

Against  his  neighbour's  life,  and  he  who  laughed 

And  leaped  for  joy  to  see  a  spotless  fame 

Blasted  before  his  own  foul  calumnies, 

Are  smit  with  deadly  silence.     He,  who  sold 

His  conscience  to  preserve  a  worthless  life, 

Even  while  he  hugs  himself  on  his  escape, 

Trembles,  as,  doubly  terrible,  at  length, 

Thy  steps  o'ertake  him,  and  there  is  no  time 

For  parley — nor  will  bribes  unclench  thy  grasp. 

Oft,  too,  dost  thou  reform  thy  victim,  long 

Ere  his  last  hour.     And  when  the  reveller, 

Mad  in  the  chase  of  pleasure,  stretches  on, 

And  strains  each  nerve,  and  clears  the  path  of  life 

Like  wind,  thou  point'st  him  to  the  dreadful  goal, 

And  shak'st  thy  hour-glass  in  his  reeling  eye, 

And  check'st  him  in  mid  course.     Thy  skeleton  hand 

Shows  to  the  faint  of  spirit  the  right  paih, 

And  he  is  warned,  and  fears  to  step  aside. 

Thou  sett'st  between  the  ruffian  and  his  crime 

Thy  ghastly  countenance,  and  his  slack  hand 

Drops  the  drawn  knife.     But,  oh,  most  fearfully 

Dost  thou  show  forth  Heaven's  justice,  when  thy  shafts 

Drink  up  the  ebbing  spirit — then  the  hard 


F  2 


66  POEMS. 


Of  heart  and  violent  of  hand  restores 
The  treasure  to  the  friendless  wretch  he  wronged. 
Then  from  the  writhing  bosom  thoti  dost  pluck 
The  guilty  secret ;  lips,  for  ages  sealed, 
Are  faithless  to  the  dreadful  trust  at  length. 
And  give  it  up  ;  the  felon's  latest  breath 
Absolves  the  innocent  man  who  bears  his  crime ; 
The  slanderer,  horror-smitten,  and  in  tears, 
Recalls  the  deadly  obloquy  he  forged 
To  work  his  brother's  ruin.     Thou  dost  make 
Thy  penitent  victim  utter  to  the  air 
The  dark  conspiracy  that  strikes  at  life. 
And  aims  to  whelm  the  laws ;  ere  yet  the  hour 
Is  come,  and  the  dread  sign  of  murder  given. 
.  .1  \  •  .  -  ;  •  -     " .  i  ~ 

Thus,  from  the  first  of  time,  hast  thou  been  found 
On  virtue's  side  ;  the  wicked,  but  for  thee, 
Had  been  too  strong  for  the  good ;   the  great  of  earth 
Had  crushed  the  weak  for  ever.     Schooled  in  guile 
For  ages,  while  each  passing  year  had  brought 
Its  baneful  lesson,  they  had  filled  the  world 
With  their  abominations  ;  while  its  tribes, 
Trodden  to  earth,  imbruted,  and  despoiled, 
Had  knelt  to  them  in  worship ;  sacrifice 
Had  smoked  on  many  an  altar,  temple  roofs 
Had  echoed  with  the  blasphemous  prayer  and  hymn : 
But  thou,  the  great  reformer  of  the  world, 


HYMN    TO    DEATH.  C7 


Tak'st  off  the  sons  of  violence  and  fraud 

In  their  green  pupilage,  their  lore  half  learned — 

Ere  guilt  had  quite  o'errun  the  simple  heart 

God  gave  them  at  their  birth,  and  blotted  out 

His  image.     Thou  dost  mark  them  flushed  with  hope, 

As  on  the  threshold  of  their  vast  designs 

Doubtful  and  loose  they  stand,  and  strik'st  them  down- 


Alas  !  I  little  thought  that  the  stern  power 
Whose  fearful  praise  I  sung,  would  try  me  thus 
Before  the  strain  was  ended.     It  must  cease — 
For  he  is  in  his  grave  who  taught  my  youth 
The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life 
Offered  me  to  the  muses.     Oh,  cut  off 
Untimely !  when  thy  reason  in  its  strength, 
Ripened  by  years  of  toil  and  studious  search, 
And  watch  of  Nature's  silent  lessons,  taught 
Thy  hand  to  practise  best  the  lenient  art 
To  which  thou  gavest  thy  laborious  days, 
And,  last,  thy  life.     And,  therefore,  when  the  earth 
Received  thee,  tears  were  in  unyielding  eyes 
And  on  hard  cheeks,  and  they  who  deemed  thy  skill 
Delayed  their  death-hour,  shuddered  and  turned  pale 
When  thou  wert  gone.     This  faltering  verse,  which  thou 
Shalt  not,  as  wont,  overlook,  is  all  I  have 
To  offer  at  thy  grave — this — and  the  hope 


POEMS. 


To  copy  thy  example,  and  to  leave 

A  name  of  which  the  wretched  shall  not  think 

As  of  an  enemy's,  whom  they  forgive 

As  all  forgive  the  dead.     Rest,  therefore,  thou 

Whose  early  guidance  trained  my  infant  steps — 

Rest,  in  the  bosom  of  God,  till  the  brief  sleep 

Of  death  is  over,  and  a  happier  life 

Shall  dawn  to  waken  thine  insensible  dust. 

Now  thou  art  not — and  yet  the  men  whose  guilt 
Has  wearied  Heaven  for  vengeance — he  who  bears 
False  witness — he  who  takes  the  orphan's  bread, 
And  robs  the  widow — he  who  spreads  abroad 
Polluted  hands  of  mockery  of  prayer, 
Are  left  to  cumber  earth.     Shuddering  I  look 
On  what  is  -written,  yet  I  blot  not  out 
The  desultory  numbers — let  them  stand. 
The  record  of  an  idle  reveiy. 


THE    MASSACRE    AT    SCI  O.  09 


THE   MASSACRE  AT   SCIO. 

\ 

WEEP  not  for  Scio's  children  slain  ; 

Their  blood,  by  Turkish  falchions  shed, 
Sends  not  its  cry  to  Heaven  in  vain 

For  vengeance  on  the  murderer's  head. 

Though  high  the  warm  red  torrent  ran 
Between  the  flames  that  lit  the  sky, 

Yet,  for  each  drop,  an  armed  man 
Shall  rise,  to  free  the  land,  or  die. 

And  for  each  corpse,  that  in  the  sea 
Was  thrown,  to  feast  the  scaly  herds, 

A  hundred  of  the  foe  shall  be 

A  banquet  for  the  mountain  birds. 

Stern  rites  and  sad,  shall  Greece  ordain 
To  keep  that  d'ty,  along  her  shore, 

Till  the  last  link  of  slavery's  chain 
Is  shivered,  to  be  worn  no  more. 


70  POEMS. 


THE   INDIAN   GIRL'S    LAMENT. 

AN  Indian  girl  was  sitting  where 
Her  lover,  slain  in  battle,  slept; 

Her  maiden  veil,  her  own  black  hair, 
Came  down  o'er  eyes  that  wept ; 

And  wildly,  in  her  woodland  tongue, 

This  sad  and  simple  lay  she  sung : 

"I've  pulled  away  the  shrubs  that  grew 
Too  close  above  thy  sleeping  head, 
And  broke  the  forest  boughs  that  threw 

Their  shadows  o'er  thy  bed, 
That,  shining  from  the  sweet  south-west, 
The  sunbeams  might  rejoice  thy  rest. 

"  It  was  a  weary,  weary  road 

That  led  thee  to  the  pleasant  coast, 
Where  thou,  in  his  serene  abode, 

Hast  met  thy  father's  ghost ; 
Where  everlasting  autumn  lies 
On  yellow  woods  and  sunny  skies. 


THE    INDIAN    GIRL'S    LAMENT.  71 


"  'Twas  I  the  broidered  mocsen  made, 

That  shod  thee  for  that  distant  land  ; 
'Twas  I  thy  bow  and  arrows  laid 

Beside  thy  still  cold  hand  ; 
Thy  bow  in  many  a  battle  bent, 
Thy  arrows  never  vainly  sent. 

«  With  wampum  belts  I  crossed  thy  breast, 
And  wrapped  thee  in  the  bison's  hide, 

And  laid  the  food  that  pleased  thee  best, 
In  plenty,  by  thy  side, 

And  decked  thee  bravely,  as  became 

A  warrior  of  illustrious  name. 

• 

«  Thou'rt  happy  now,  for  thou  hast  passed 
The  long  danc  journey  of  the  grave, 

And  in  the  land  of  light,  at  last, 
Hast  joined  the  good  and  brave  ; 

Amid  the  flushed  and  balmy  air, 

The  bravest  and  the  loveliest  there. 

"  Yet,  oft  to  thine  own  Indian  maid 

Even  there  thy  thoughts  will  earthward  stray ,- 
To  her  who  sits  where  thou  wert  laid, 

And  weeps  the  hours  away, 
Yet  almost  can  her  grief  forget, 
To  think  that  thou  dost  love  her  yet. 


72  P  O  E  M  S. 


"And  thou,  by  one  of  those  still  lakes 

That  in  a  shining  cluster  lie, 
On  which  the  south  wind  scarcely  breaks 

The  image  of  the  sky, 
A  bower  for  thee  and  me  hast  made 
Beneath  the  many-coloured  shade. 

«  And  thou  dost  wait  and  watch  to  meet 

My  spirit  sent  to  join  the  blessed, 
And,  wondering  what  detains  my  feet 

From  the  bright  land  of  rest. 
Dost  seem,  in  every  sound,  to  hear 
The  rustling  of  my  footsteps  near." 


ODE.  73 


ODE  FOR  AN  AGRICULTURAL  CELEBRATION- 


back  in  the  ages, 

O        '  „ 

The  plough  with  wreaths  was  crowned 
The  hands  of  kings  and  sages 

Entwined  the  chaplet  round ; 
Till  men  of  spoil  disdained  the  toil 

By  which  the  world  was  nourished, 
And  dews  of  blood  enriched  the  soil 

Where  green  their  laurels  flourished  : 
—Now  the  world  her  fault  repairs — 

The  guilt  that  stains  her  story  ; 
And  weeps  her  crimes  amid  the  cares 

That  formed  her  earliest  glory. 

The  proud  throne  shall  crumble, 

The  diadem  shall  wane, 
The  tribes  of  earth  shall  humble 

The  pride  of  those  who  reign  ; 
And  War  shall  lay  his  pomp  away  ; — 

The  fame  that  heroes  cherish, 
o 


74  POEMS. 


The  glory  earned  in  deadly  fray 
Shall  fade,  decay,  and  perish. 

Honour  waits,  o'er  all  the  Earth, 
Through  endless  generations, 

The  art  that  calls  her  harvests  forth, 
And  feeds  the  expectant  nations. 


il  I  Z  P  A  H.  75 


1UZPAH. 

And  he  delivered  them  into  the  hands  of  the  Gibconites,  and  they 
hanged  them  in  the  hill  before  the  Lord ;  and  they  fell  all  seven  to 
gether,  and  were  put  to  death  in  the  days  of  the  harvest,  in  the  first 
days,  in  the  beginning  of  barley-harvest. 

And  Rizpah,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  took  sackcloth,  and  spread  it  for 
her  upon  the  rock,  from  the  beginning  of  harvest  until  the  water  dropped 
upon  them  out  of  heaven,  and  suffered  neither  the  birds  of  the  air  to  rest 
upon  them  by  day,  nor  the  beasts  of  the  field  by  night. 

2  SAMUEL,  xxi.  10. 

HEAR  what  the  desolate  Rizpah  said, 
As  on  Gibeah's  rocks  she  watched  the  dead. 
The  sons  of  Michal  before  her  lay, 
And  her  own  fair  children,  dearer  than  they : 
By  a  death  of  shame  they  all  had  died, 
And  were  stretched  on  the  bare  rock,  side  by  side. 
And  Rizpah,  once  the  loveliest  of  all 
That  bloomed  and  smiled  in  the  court  of  Saul, 
All  wasted  with  watching  and  famine  now, 
And  scorched  by  the  sun  her  haggard  brow, 
Sat  mournfully  guarding  their  corpses  there, 
And  murmured  a  strange  and  solemn  air ; 


76  P  O  E  M  S. 


The  low,  heart-broken,  and  wailing  strain 
Of  a  mother  that  mourns  her  children  slain: 

"I  have  made  the  crags  my  home,  and  spread 
On  their  desert  backs  my  sackcloth  bed ; 
I  have  eaten  the  bitter  herb  of  the  rocks, 
And  drunk  the  midnight  dew  in  my  locks ; 
I  have  wept  till  I  could  not  weep,  and  the  pain 
Of  my  burning  eyeballs  went  to  my  brain. 
Seven  blackened  corpses  before  me  lie, 
In  the  blaze  of  the  sun  and  the  winds  of  the  sky. 
I  have  watched  them  through  the  burning  day, 
And  driven  the  vulture  and  raven  away ; 
And  the  cormorant  wheeled  in  circles  round, 
Yet  feared  to  alight  on  the  guarded  ground. 
And  when  the  shadows  of  twilight  came, 
I  have  seen  the  hyena's  eyes  of  flame, 
And  heard  at  my  side  his  stealthy  tread, 
But  aye  at  my  shout  the  savage  fled: 
And  I  threw  the  lighted  brand  to  fright 
The  jackal  and  wolf  that  yelled  in  the  night. 

•  .       V  -V    ~   ?,  '" 
"Ye  were  foully  murdered,  my  hapless  sons, 

By  the  hands  of  wicked  and  cruel  ones ; 
Ye  fell,  in  your  fresh  and  blooming  prime, 
All  innocent,  for  your  father's  crime. 


K  I  Z  P  A  H.  77 


He  sinned — but  lie  paid  the  price  of  his  guilt 
When  his  blood  by  a  nameless  hand  was  spilt ; 
When  he  strove  with  the  heathen  host  in  vain, 
And  fell  with  the  flower  of  his  people  slain, 
And  the  sceptre  his  children's  hands  should  sway 
From  his  injured  lineage  passed  away. 

"  But  I  hoped  that  the  cottage  roof  would  be 
A  safe  retreat  for  my  sons  and  me; 
And  that  while  they  ripened  to  manhood  fast, 
They  should  wean  my  thoughts  from  the  woes  of  the  past. 
And  ray  bosom  swelled  with  a  mother's  pride, 
As  they  stood  in  their  beauty  and  strength  by  my  side, 
Tall  like  their  sire,  with  the  princely  grace 
Of  his  stately  form,  and  the  bloom  of  his  face. 

"  Oh,  what  an  hour  for  a  mother's  heart, 
When  the  pitiless  ruffians  tore  us  apart ! 
When  I  clasped  their  knees  and  wept  and  prayed, 
And  struggled  and  shrieked  to  Heaven  for  aid, 
And  clung  to  my  sons  with  desperate  strength, 
Till  the  murderers  loosed  my  hold  at  length, 
And  bore  me  breathless  and  faint  aside, 
In  their  iron  arms,  while  my  children  died. 
They  died — and  the  mother  that  gave  them  birth 
Is  forbid  to  cover  their  bones  with  earth. 

08 


78  POEMS. 


«  The  barley-harvest  was  nodding  white, 
When  my  children  died  on  the  rocky  height, 
And  the  reapers  were  singing  on  hill  and  plain, 
When  I  came  to  my  task  of  sorrow  and  pain. 
But  now  the  season  of  rain  is  nigh, 
The  sun  is  dim  in  the  thickening  sky, 
And  the  clouds  in  sullen  darkness  rest 
Where  he  hides  his  light  at  the  doors  of  the  west, 
I  hear  the  howl  of  the  wind  that  brings 
The  long  drear  storm  on  its  heavy  wings  ; 
But  the  howling  wind  and  the  driving  rain 
Will  beat  on  my  houseless  head  in  vain : 
I  shall  stay,  from  my  murdered  sons  to  scare 
The  beasts  of  the  desert,  and  fowls  of  air." 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    FUNERAL.  79 


THE  OLD   MAN'S   FUNERAL. 

I  SAW  an  aged  man  upon  his  bier, 

His  hair  was  thin  and  white,  and  on  his  brow 

A  record  of  the  cares  of  many  a  year ; — 
Cares  that  were  ended  and  forgotten  now. 

And  there  was  sadness  round,  and  faces  bowed, 

And  woman's  tears  fell  fast,  and  children  wailed  aloud. 

Then  rose  another  hoary  man  and  said, 

In  faltering  accents,  to  that  weeping  train, 
«  Why  mourn  ye  that  our  aged  friend  is  dead  ? 

Ye  are  not  sad  to  see  the  gathered  grain, 
Nor  when  their  mellow  fruit  the  orchards  cast, 
Nor  when  the  yellow  woods  shake  down  the  ripened  mast. 

"  Ye  sigh  not  when  the  sun,  his  course  fulfilled, 
His  glorious  course,  rejoicing  earth  and  sky, 
In  the  soft  evening,  when  the  winds  are  stilled, 

Sinks  where  his  islands  of  refreshment  lie, 
And  leaves  the  smile  of  his  departure,  spread 
O'er  the  warm-coloured  heaven  and  ruddy  mountain  head. 


80  POEMS. 


"  Why  weep  ye  then  for  him,  who,  having  won 

The  bound  of  man's  appointed  years,  at  last, 
Life's  blessings  all  enjoyed,  life's  labours  done, 

Serenely  to  his  final  rest  has  passed  ; 
While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues,  yet, 
Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the  bright  sun  is  set  ? 

«  His  youth  was  innocent ;  his  riper  age 

Marked  with  some  act  of  goodness  every  day ; 
And  watched  by  eyes  that  loved  him,  calm,  and  sage, 

Faded  his  late  declining  years  away. 
Cheerful  he  gave  his  being  up,  and  went 
To  share  the  holy  rest  that  waits  a  life  well  spent. 

"  That  life  was  happy ;  every  day  he  gave 

Thanks  for  the  fair  existence  that  was  his ; 
For  a  sick  fancy  made  him  not  her  slave, 

To  mock  him  with  her  phantom  miseries. 
No  chronic  tortures  racked  his  aged  limb, 
For  luxury  and  sloth  had  nourished  none  for  him. 

«  And  I  am  glad  that  he  has  lived  thus  long, 

And  glad  that  he  has  gone  to  his  reward ; 
Nor  can  I  deem  that  nature  did  him  wrong, 

Softly  to  disengage  the  vital  cord. 
For  when  his  hand  grew  palsied,  and  his  eye 
Dark  with  the  mists  of  age,  it  was  his  time  to  die." 


THE    R  1  V  U  L  E  T.  81 


THE  RIVULET. 

THIS  little  rill,  that  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  a  while,  and  then 
Goes  prattling  into  groves  again, 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 
My  little  feet,  when  life  was  new. 
When  woods  in  eirly  green  were  dressed, 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warmer  breezes,  travelling  out, 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 
My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray, 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play, 
List  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn, 
And  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim, 
With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill,  as  thou. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  in  love  with  fame, 


92  POEMS. 


Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 
Words  cannot  tell  how  bright  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
Then  glorious  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek, 
Passed  o'er  me  ;  and  I  wrote,  on  high, 
A  name  I  deemed  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.     Upon  yon  hill 
The  .tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 
Yet  tell,  in  grandeur  of  decay, 
How  swift  the  years  have  passed  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half  afraid, 
I  wandered  in  the  forest  shade. 
Thou  ever  joyous  rivulet, 
Dost  dimple,  leap,  and  prattle  yet ; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 
The  windings  of  thy  silver  wave, 
And  dancing  to  thy  owrn  wild  chime, 
Thou  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ea- 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear ; 
As  pure  thy  limpid  waters  run, 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun ; 
As  fresh  and  thick  the  bending  ranks 
Of  herbs  that  line  thy  oozy  banks ; 


T  II  E    R  I  V  U  L  E  T.  83 


The  violet  there,  in  soil  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue ; 
As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress. 
Floats  the  scarce-rooted  watercress : 
And  the  brown  ground-bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Thou  changest  not — but  I  am  changed, 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged  ; 
And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy, 
Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
I've  tried  the  world — it  wears  no  more 
The  colouring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  Nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  to  my  earliest  youth. 
The  radiant  beauty  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  God, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sobered  eye, 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by 

A  few  brief  years  shall  pass  away, 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak,  and  gray, 


84  POEMS. 


Bowed  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould, 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date,) 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favourite  brook. 
Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 
The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream  ; 
And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  call ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  flow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  infant  sight. 

And  I  shall  sleep — and  on  thy  side, 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 
And  pass  to  hoary  age  and  die. 
But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 
Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here  ; 
Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass  ; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


M  A  R  0  II.  95 


MARCH. 

THE  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 

With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies , 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast, 

That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies 

Ah,  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 
Wild  stormy  month!  in  praise  of  thee  ; 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou,  to  northern  lands,  again 
The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day, 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm, 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 


86  POEMS. 


Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills 

And  the  full  springs,  from  frost  set  free, 

That,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 
Are  just  set  out  to  meet  the  sea. 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 
Of  wintry  storms  the  sullen  threat ; 

But  in  thy  sternest  frown  abides 
A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies. 

And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 
When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 

Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 


SONNET    TO  .  87 


SONNET  TO 


AY,  thou  art  for  the  grave  ;  thy  glances  shine 

Too  brightly  to  shine  long  ;  another  Spring 
Shall  deck  her  for  men's  eyes, — but  not  for  thine — 

Sealed  in  a  sleep  which  knows  no  wakening. 
The  fields  for  thee  have  no  medicinal  leaf, 

And  the  vexed  ore  no  mineral  of  power ; 
And  they  who  love  thee  wait  in  anxious  grief 

Till  the  slow  plague  shall  bring  the  fatal  hour. 
Glide  softly  to  thy  rest  then  ;  Death  should  come 

Gently,  to  one  of  gentle  mould  like  thee, 
As  light  winds  wandering  through  groves  of  bloom 

Detach  the  delicate  blossom  from  the  tree. 
Close  thy  sweet  eyes,  calmly,  and  without  pain ; 
And  we  will  trust  in  God  to  see  thee  yet  again. 


POEMS. 


AN  INDIAN   STORY. 

"  I  KNOW  where  the  timid  fawn  abides 

In  the  depths  of  the  shaded  dell, 
Where  the  leaves  are  broad  and  the  thicket  hides, 
With  its  many  stems  and  its  tangled  sides, 

From  the  eye  of  the  hunter  well. 

«  I  know  where  the  young  May  violet  grows, 

In  its  lone  and  lowly  nook, 
On  the  mossy  bank,  where  the  larch-tree  throws 
Its  broad  dark  boughs,  in  solemn  repose, 
Far  over  the  silent  brook. 

«  And  that  timid  fawn  starts  not  with  fear 

When  I  steal  to  her  secret  bower ; 
And  that  young  May  violet  to  me  is  dear, 
And  I  visit  the  silent  streamlet  near, 

To  look  on  the  lovely  flower." 

Thus  Maquon  sings  as  he  lightly  walks 
To  the  hunting-ground  on  the  hills ; 
'Tis  a  song  of  his  maid  of  the  woods  and  rocks, 

With  her  bright  black  eyes  and  long  black  locks, 

r          j 

And  voice  like  the  music  of  rills. 


AN    INDIAN    STORY. 


He  goes  to  the  chase — but  evil  eyes 

Are  at  watch  in  the  thicker  shades; 
For  she  was  lovely  that  smiled  on  his  sighs, 
And  he  bore,  from  a  hundred  lovers,  his  prize, 

The  flower  of  the  forest  maids. 

The  boughs  in  the  morning  wind  are  stirred, 

And  the  woods  their  song  renew, 
With  the  early  carol  of  many  a  bird, 
And  the  quickened  tune  of  the  streamlet  heard 

Where  the  hazels  trickle  with  dew. 

And  Maquon  has  promised  his  dark-haired  maid, 

Ere  eve  shall  redden  the  sky, 
A  good  red  deer  from  the  forest  shade, 
That  bounds  with  the  herd  through  grove  and  glade, 

At  her  cabin-door  shall  lie. 

The  hollow  woods,  in  the  setting  sun, 

Ring  shrill  with  the  fire-bird's  lay ; 
And  Maquon's  sylvan  labours  are  done, 
And  his  shafts  are  spent,  but  the  spoil  they  won 

He  bears  on  his  homeward  way. 

He  stops  near  his  bower — his  eye  perceives 

Strange  traces  along  the  ground — 
At  once  to  the  earth  his  burden  he  heaves, 
He  breaks  through  the  veil  of  boughs  and  leaves, 

And  gains  its  door  with  a  bound. 


90  POEMS. 


But  the  vines  are  torn  on  its  walls  that  leant, 

And  all  from  the  young  shrubs  there 
By  struggling  hands  have  the  leaves  been  rent, 
And  there  hangs  on  the  sassafras,  broken  and  bent, 
One  tress  of  the  well-known  hair. 

But  where  is  she  who,  at  this  calm  hour, 

Ever  watched  his  coming  to  see  ? 
She  is  not  at  the  door,  nor  yet  in  the  bower ; 
He  calls — but  he  only  hears  on  the  flower 

The  hum  of  the  laden  bee. 

It  is  not  a  time  for  idle  grief, 

Nor  a  time  for  tears  to  flow  ; 
The  horror  that  freezes  his  limbs  is  brief — 
He  grasps  his  war-axe  and  bow,  and  a  sheaf 

Of  darts  made  sharp  for  the  foe. 

And  he  looks  for  the  print  of  the  ruffian's  feet. 

Where  he  bore  the  maiden  away ; 
And. he  darts  on  the  fatal  path  more  fleet 
Than  the  blast  that  hurries  the  vapour  and  sleet 

O'er  the  wild  November  day. 

'Twas  early  summer  when  Maquon's  bride 

Was  stolen  away  from  his  door ; 
But  at  length  the  maples  in  crimson  are  dyed, 
And  the  grape  is  black  on  the  cabin  side, — 

And  she  smiles  at  his  hearth  once  more. 


AN    INDIAN    STORY. 


01 


But  far  in  the  pine-grove,  dark  and  cold, 

Where  the  yellow  leaf  falls  not. 
Nor  the  autumn  shines  in  scarlet  and  gold, 
There  lies  a  hillock  of  fresh  dark  mould, 

In  the  deepest  gloom  of  the  spot. 

And  the  Indian  girls,  that  pass  that  way, 

Point  out  the  ravisher's  grave  ; 
«  And  how  soon  to  the  bower  she  loved,"  they  say, 
«  Returned  the  maid  that  was  borne  away 

From  Maquon,  the  fond  and  the  brave." 


92  POEMS. 


SUMMER  WIND. 

•> 

IT  is  a  sultry  day ;  the  sun  has  drunk 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass ; 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 
Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent,  save  the  faint 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  again 
Instantly  on  the  wing.     The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervours :  the  tall  maize 
Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves  ;  the  clover  droops 
Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 
But  far  in  the  fierce  sunshine  tower  the  hills, 
With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stern, 
As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
Were  but  an  element  they  loved.     Bright  clouds, 
Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven, — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains — their  white  tops 
Shining  in  the  far  ether — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away.     For  me,  I  lie 


SUMMER   WIND. 


Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf, 
Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  its  coming.     Why  so  slow, 
Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  ? 
Oh,  come  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 
Coolness  and  life.     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me  ?     See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge, 
The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top,  and  now 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and  oak 
Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.     He  comes! 
Lo,  where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves ! 
The  deep  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 
Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered  sounds 
And  universal  motion.     He  is  come, 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs, 
And  bearing  on  their  fragrance  ;  and  he  brings 
Music  of  birds,  and  rustling  of  young  boughs, 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 
Of  distant  waterfalls.     All  the  green  herbs 
Are  stirring  in  his  breath  ;  a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  road-side  and  the  borders  of  the  brook, 
Nod  gayly  to  each  other ;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet,  and  silver  waters  break 
Into  small  waves  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 


94  POEMS. 


AN  INDIAN  AT  THE  BURIAL-PLACE  OF  HIS 
FATHERS. 

IT  is  the  spot  I  came  to  seek, — 

My  fathers'  ancient  burial-place 
Ere  from  these  vales,  ashamed  and  weak, 

Withdrew  our  wasted  race. 
It  is  the  spot — I  know  it  well — 
Of  which  our  old  traditions  tell. 

— s     / 

For  here  the  upland  bank  sends  out 

A  ridge  toward  the  river-side  ; 
I  know  the  shaggy  hills  about, 

The  meadows  smooth  and  wide, — 
The  plains,  that,  toward  the  southern  sky, 
Fenced  east  and  west  by  mountains  lie. 

A  white  man,  gazing  on  the  scene, 
Would  say  a  lovely  spot  was  here, 

And  praise  the  lawns,  so  fresh  and  green, 
Between  the  hills  so  sheer. 

I  like  it  not — I  would  the  plain 

Lay  in  its  tall  old  groves  again. 


AN    INDIAN    AT   THE    BURIAL-PLACE.      95 

The  sheep  are  on  the  slopes  around, 

The  cattle  in  the  meadows  feed, 
And  labourers  turn  the  crumbling  ground, 

Or  drop  the  yellow  seed, 
And  prancing  steeds,  in  trappings  gay, 
Whirl  the  bright  chariot  o'er  the  way. 

Methinks  it  were  a  nobler  sight 
To  see  these  vales  in  woods  arrayed, 

Their  summits  in  the  golden  light, 
Their  trunks  in  grateful  shade, 

And  herds  of  deer,  that  bounding  go 

O'er  hills  and  prostrate  trees  below. 

And  then  to  mark  the  lord  of  all, 

The  forest  hero,  trained  to  wars, 
Quivered  and  plumed,  and  lithe  and  tall, 

And  seamed  with  glorious  scars, 
Walk  forth,  amid  his  reign,  to  dare 
The  wolf,  and  grapple  with  the  bear. 

This  bank,  in  which  the  dead  were  laid, 
Was  sacred  when  its  soil  was  ours ; 

Hither  the  artless  Indian  maid 

Brought  wreaths  of  beads  and  flowers, 

And  the  gray  chief  and  gifted  seer 

Worshipped  the  god  of  thunders  here. 


96  POEMS. 


But  now  the  wheat  is  green  and  high 
On  clods  that  hid  the  warrior's  breast, 

And  scattered  in  the  furrows  lie 
The  weapons  of  his  rest ; 

And  there,  in  the  loose  sand,  is  thrown 

Of  his  large  arm  the  mouldering  bone. 

Ah,  little  thought  the  strong  and  brave 
Who  bore  their  lifeless  chieftain  forth — 

Or  the  young  wife,  that  weeping  gave 
Her  first-born  to  the  earth, 

That  the  pale  race,  who  waste  us  now, 

Among  their  bones  should  guide  the  plough. 

They  waste  us — ay — like  April  snow 
In  the  warm  noon,  we  shrink  away ; 

And  fast  they  follow,  as  we  go 
Towards  the  setting  day,- 

Till  they  shall  fill  the  land,  and  we 

Are  driven  into  the  western  sea. 

But  I  behold  a  fearful  sign, 

To  which  the  white  men's  eyes  are  blind ; 
Their  race  may  vanish  hence,  like  mine, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind, 
Save  ruins  o'er  the  region  spread, 
And  the  white  stones  above  the  dead. 


AN    INDIAN    AT    THE    BURIAL-PLACE.      97 

Before  these  fields  were  shorn  and  tilled, 

Full  to  the  brim  our  rivers  flowed ; 
The  melody  of  waters  filled 

The  fresh  and  boundless  wood ; 
And  torrents  dashed  and  rivulets  played, 
And  fountains  spouted  in  the  shade. 

Those  grateful  sounds  are  heard  no  more, 

The  springs  are  silent  in  the  sun ; 
The  rivers,  by  the  blackened  shore, 

With  lessening  current  run  ; 
The  realm  our  tribes  are  crushed  to  get 
May  be  a  oarren  desert  yet. 


98  POEMS. 


SONG. 

DOST  thou  idly  ask  to  hear 

At  what  gentle  seasons 
Nymphs  relent,  when  lovers  near 

Press  the  tenderest  reasons? 
Ah,  they  give  their  faith  too  oft 

To  the  careless  wooer ; 
Maidens'  hearts  are  always  soft : 

Would  that  men's  were  truer! 

Woo  the  fair  one,  when  around 

Early  birds  are  singing ; 
When,  o'er  all  the  fragrant  ground, 

Early  herbs  are  springing  : 
When  the  brookside,  bank,  and  grove, 

All  with  blossoms  laden, 
Shine  with  beauty,  breathe  of  love, — 

Woo  the  timid  maiden. 

Woo  her  when,  with  rosy  blush, 
Summer  eve  is  sinking ; 


SONG.  99 


When,  on  rills  that  softly  gush, 

Stars  are  softly  winking ; 
When,  through  boughs  that  knit  the  bower, 

Moonlight  gleams  are  stealing ; 
Woo  her,  till  the  gentle  hour 

Wake  a  gentler  feeling. 

Woo  her,  when  autumnal  dyes 

Tinge  the  woody  mountain  ; 
When  the  dropping  foliage  lies 

In  the  weedy  fountain  ; 
Let  the  scene,  that  tells  how  fast 

Youth  is  passing  over, 
Warn  her,  ere  her  bloom  is  past, 

To  secure  her  lover. 

Woo  her,  when  the  north  winds  call 

At  the  lattice  nightly  ; 
When,  within  the  cheerful  hall, 

Blaze  the  fagots  brightly ; 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary, 
Sweeter  in  her  ear  shall  sound 

Love's  delightful  story. 


100  POEMS. 


HYMN  OF  THE  WALDENSES. 


HEAR,  Father,  hear  thy  faint  afflicted  flock 
Cry  to  thee,  from  the  desert  and  the  rock ; 
While  those,  who  seek  to  slay  thy  children,  hold 
Blasphemous  worship  under  roofs  of  gold  ; 
And  the  broad  goodly  lands,  with  pleasant  airs 
That  nurse  the  grape  and  wave  the  grain,  are  theirs. 

Yet  better  were  this  mountain  wilderness, 
And  this  wild  life  of  danger  and  distress — 
Watchings  by  night  and  perilous  flight  by  day, 
And  meetings  in  the  depths  of  earth  to  pray, 
Better,  far  better,  than  to  kneel  with  them, 
And  pay  the  impious  rite  thy  laws  condemn. 

Thou,  Lord,  dost  hold  the  thunder ;  the  firm  land 
Tosses  in  billows  when  it  feels  thy  hand  ; 
Thou  dashest  nation  against  nation,  then 
Stillest  the  angry  world  to  peace  again. 
Oh,  touch  their  stony  hearts  who  hunt  thy  sons — 
The  murderers  of  our  wives  and  little  ones. 


HYMN    OF   THE    WALDENSES.  101 

Yet,  mighty  God,  yet  shall  thy  frown  look  forth 
Unveiled,  and  terribly  shall  shake  the  earth. 
Then  the  foul  power  of  priestly  sin  and  all 
Its  long-upheld  idolatries  shall  fall. 
Thou  snalt  raise  up  the  trampled  and  oppressed, 
And  thy  delivered  saints  shall  dwell  in  rest. 


102  POEMS. 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN. 

THOU  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 
Mingled  m  harmony  JCR  Nature's  face, 
Ascend,  our  rocky , mo untains.     Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 
The  steep  and  toilsome  way.     There,  as  thou  stand'st, 
The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 
The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 
Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world 
To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 
The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.     Thou  shalt  look 
Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops, 
And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 
And  streams,  that  with  their  bordering  thickets  strive 
To  hide  their  windings.     Thou  shalt  gaze,  at  once, 
Here  on  white  villages,  and  tilth,  and  herds, 
And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  solitudes 
That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind, 
And  eagle's  shriek.     There  is  a  precipice 
That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall, 


MONUMENT    MOUNTAIN.  103 


Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 

To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 

When  the  flood  drowned  them.     To  the  north,  a  path 

Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 

Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 

With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 

And  many  a  hanging  crag.     But,  to  the  east, 

Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs, — 

Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  upbear 

Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 

With  the  thick  moss  of  centuries,  and  there 

Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt 

Has  splintered  them.     It  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 

Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge  gray  wall, 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at  the  base 

Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ear 

Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 

Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 

Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 

Is  lovely  round  ;  a  beautiful  river  there 

\Vanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 

The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 

Mining  the  soil  for  ages.     On  each  side 

The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills;  beyond, 

Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 

The  mighty  columns  with  which  earth  props  heaven. 


104  POEMS. 


There  is  a  tale  about  these  reverend  rocks, 
A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love, 
And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago, 
When  over  these  fair  vales  the  savage  sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.     There  was  a  maid, 
The  fairest  of  the  Indian  maids,  bright-eyed, 
With  wealth  of  raven  tresses,  a  light  form, 
And  a  gay  heart.     About  her  cabin-door 
The  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her  song 
And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She  loved  her  cousin  ;  such  a  love  was  deemed, 
By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes, 
Incestuous,  and  she  struggled  hard  and  long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart, 
As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.     In  vain. 
Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 
Its  lightness,  and  the  gray-haired  men  that  passed 
Her  dwelling,  wondered  that  they  heard  no  more 
The  accustomed  song  and  laugh  of  her,  whose  looks 
Were  like  the  cheerful  smile  of  Spring,  they  said, 
Upon  the  Winter  of  their  age.     She  went 
To  \veep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not  found 
When  all  the  merry  girls  were  met  to  dance, 
And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out ; 
Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling  husk 
The  shining  ear ;  nor  when,  by  the  river's  side, 
They  pulled  the  grape  and  startled  the  wild  shades 


MONUMENT    MOUNTAIN.  105 

With  sounds  of  mirth.     The  keen-eyed  Indian  dames 
Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 
Her  wasting  form,  and  say  the  girl  will  die. 

One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 
A  playmate  of  her  young  and  innocent  years, 
She  poured  her  griefs.    "  Thou  know'st,  and  thou  alone," 
She  said,  «  for  I  have  told  thee,  all  my  love, 
And  guilt,  and  sorrow.     I  am  sick  of  life. 
All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  the  morn 
Glares  on  me,  as  upon  a  thing  accursed, 
That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.     I  hate 
The  pastimes  and  the  pleasant  toils  that  once 
I  loved ;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 
Have  an  unnatural  horror  in  mine  ear. 
In  dreams  my  mother,  from  the  land  of  souls, 
Calls  me  and  chides  me.     All  that  look  on  me 
Do  seem  to  know  my  shame  ;  I  cannot  bear 
Their  eyes ;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root  out  » 
The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die." 

It  was  a  summer  morning,  and  they  went 
To  this  old  precipice.     About  the  cliffs 
Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  shaggy  skins 
Of  wolf  and  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  they  deemed, 
Like  worshippers  of  the  elder  time,  that  God 


106  POEMS. 


Doth  walk  on  the  high  places  and  affect 

The  earth-o'erlooking  mountains.     She  had  on 

The  ornaments  with  which  her  father  loved 

To  deck  the  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl, 

And  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors  came 

To  be  his  guests.     Here  the  friends  sat  them  down, 

And  sang,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and  death, 

And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with  flowers, 

And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be  her  way 

To  the  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no  grief 

Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 

Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 

Below  her — wraters  resting  in  the  embrace 

Of  the  wide  forest,  and  maize-planted  glades 

Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 

She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 

Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the  trees, 

And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 

Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love, 

And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears 

Ran  from  her  eyes.     But  when  the  sun  grew  low 

And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 

From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.     There  was  scooped 

Upon  the  mountain's  southern  slope,  a  grave  ; 

And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 

With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for  death, 

With  the  same  withering  wild  flowers  in  her  hair. 


MONUMENT    MOUNTAIN.  -  107 


And  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the  tribe 

Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 

Of  small  loose  stones.     Thenceforward  all  who  passed, 

Hunter,  and  dame,  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 

In  silence  on  the  pile.     It  stands  there  yet. 

And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  who  come 

To  visit  where  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 

Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and  to  this  day 

The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden  died 

Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 


108  POEMS. 


AFTER  A  TEMPEST. 

THE  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm  ;— 
The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  overpast, — 
And  stooping  from  the  zenith  bright  and  warm 
Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 
I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 
My  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene, 
Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains  vast, 
And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 
With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out  and  villages  between. 

The.  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around, 
Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirred, 
Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground, 
Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird ; 
For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were  heard 
About  the  flowers ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung 
And  gossiped,  as  he  hastened  ocean- ward  ; 
To  the  gray  oak  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung, 
*ind  chirping  from  the  ground  the  grasshopper  upsprung. 


AFTER   A  TEMPEST.  109 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves  that  kept  them  dry 
Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there, 
And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 
That  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air. 
The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket,  where 
The  violent  rain  had  pent  them  ;  in  the  way 
Strolled  groups  of  damsels  frolicksome  and  fair ; 
The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turned  the  hay, 
And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  his  children  were  at  play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace — and,  like  a  spell, 
Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 
Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  fell, 
And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall, 
And  glassy  river  and  white  waterfall, 
And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 
And  beauteous  scene ;  while  far  beyond  them  all, 
On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 
Was  poured  from  the  blue  heavens  the  same  soft  golden  light 

I  looked,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 
An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be, 
When  o'er  earth's  continents,  and  isles  between, 
The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony ; 
When  millions,  crouching  in  the  dust  to  one, 
No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee, 


no  POEMS. 


Nor  the  black  stake  be  dressed,  nor  in  the  sun 
The  o'erlaboured  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life  were  done. 

Too  long,  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers 
And  pools  of  blood,  the  earth  has  stood  aghast, 
The  fair  earth,  that  should  only  blush  with  flowers 
And  ruddy  fruits ;  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm,  and  sweet  the  sunshine  when  'tis  past. 
Lo,  the  clouds  roll  away — they  break — they  fly, 
And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 
O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing  sky, 
On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  heaven  shall  lie. 


A  UTU  M  N    WO  ODS. 


AUTUMN  WOODS. 

ERE,  in  the  northern  gale, 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees  are  gone, 
The  woods  of  Autumn,  all  around  our  vale, 

Have  put  their  glory  on. 

The  mountains  that  infold, 

In  their  wide  sweep,  the  coloured  landscape  round, 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings,  in  purple  and  gold, 

That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland,  where  the  mingled  splendours  glow, 
Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 

In  these  bright  walks  ;  the  sweet  south-west,  at  play, 
Flies,  rustling,  where  the  painted  leaves  are  strown 

Along  the  winding  way. 


113  POEMS. 


And  far  in  heaven,  the  while, 
The  sun,  that  sends  that  gale  to  wander  here, 
Pours  out  on  the  fair  earth  his  quiet  smile, — 

The  sweetest  of  the  year. 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, 
Verdure  and  gloom  where  many  branches  meet ; 
So  grateful,  when  the  noon  of  summer  made 

The  valleys  sick  with  heat  ? 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 

Come  the  strange  rays ;  the  forest  depths  are  bright? 
Their  sunny-coloured  foliage,  in  the  breeze, 

Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen, 

Where  bickering  through  the  shrubs  its  waters  run, 
Shines  with  the  image  of  its  golden  screen, 

And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 

But  'neath  yon  crimson  tree, 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his  flame, 
Nor  mark,  within  its  roseate  canopy, 

Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

Oh,  Autumn  !  why  so  soon 
Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad ; 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 

And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad ! 


AUTU  M  N    WOODS.  113 

Ah !  'twere  a  lot  too  blessed 
For  ever  in  thy  coloured  shades  to  stray ; 
Amid  the  kisses  of  the  soft  south-west 

To  rove  and  dream  for  aye ; 

And  leave  the  vain  low  strife 

That  makes  men  mad— the  tug  for  wealth  and  power, 
The  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life, 

And  waste  its  little  hour. 


114  POEMS. 


MUTATION. 


SONNET. 


THEY  talk  of  short-lived  pleasure — be  it  so — 

Pain  dies  as  quickly :  stern,  hard-featured  pain 
Expires,  and  lets  her  weary  prisoner  go. 

The  fiercest  agonies  have  shortest  reign ; 

And  after  dreams  of  horror,  comes  again 
The  welcome  morning  with  its  rays  of  peace 

Oblivion,  softly  wiping  out  the  stain, 
Makes  the  strong  secret  pangs  of  shame  to  cease : 
Remorse  is  virtue's  root ;  its  fair  increase 

Are  fruits  of  innocence  and  blessedness  : 
Thus  joy,  o'erborne  and  bound,  doth  still  release 

His  young  limbs  from  the  chains  that  round  him  press. 
Weep  not  that  the  world  changes — did  it  keep 
A  stable,  changeless  state,  'twere  cause  indeed  to  weep. 


NOVEMBER.  115 


NOVEMBER. 


YET  one  smile  more,  departing,  distant  sun ! 

One  mellow  smile  through  the  soft  vapoury  air, 
Ere,  o'er  the  frozen  earth,  the  loud  winds  run, 

Or  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare. 
One  smile  on  the  brown  hills  and  naked  trees, 

And  the  dark  rocks  whose  summer  wreaths  are  cast, 
And  the  blue  gentian  flower,  that,  in  the  breeze, 

Nods  lonely,  of  her  beauteous  race  the  last. 
Yet  a  few  sunny  days,  in  which  the  bee 

Shall  murmur  by  the  hedge  that  skirts  the  way, 
The  cricket  chirp  upon  the  russet  lea, 

And  man  delight  to  linger  in  thy  ray. 
Yet  one  rich  smile,  and  we  will  try  to  bear 
The  piercing  winter  frost,  and  winds,  and  darkened  air. 


116 


POEMS. 


SONG   OF   THE   GREEK  AMAZON, 

I  BUCKLE  to  my  slender  side 

The  pistol  and  the  scimitar, 
And  in  my  maiden  flower  and  pride 

Am  come  to  share  the  tasks  of  war. 
And  yonder  stands  my  fiery  steed, 

That  paws  the  ground  and  neighs  to  go, 
My  charger  of  the  Arab  breed, — 

I  took  him  from  the  routed  foe. 

My  mirror  is  the  mountain  spring, 

At  which  I  dress  my  ruffled  hair  ; 
My  dimmed  and  dusty  arms  I  bring, 

And  wash  away  the  blood-stain  there. 
Why  should  I  guard  from  wind  and  sun 

This  cheek,  whose  virgin  rose  is  fled  ? 
It  was  for  one — oh,  only  one — 

I  kept  its  bloom,  and  he  is  dead. 

But  they  who  slew  him — unaware 
Of  coward  murderers  lurking  nigh — 


SONG  OF  THE  GREEK  AMAZON.    in 

And  left  him  to  the  fowls  of  air, 

Are  yet  alive— and  they  must  die. 
They  slew  him — and  my  virgin  years 

Are  vowed  to  Greece  and  vengeance  now, 
And  many  an  Othman  dame,  in  tears, 

Shall  rue  the  Grecian  maiden's  vow. 

I  touched  the  lute  in  better  days, 

I  led  in  dance  the  joyous  band  ; 
Ah !  they  may  move  to  mirthful  lays 

Whose  hands  can  touch  a  lover's  hand. 
The  march  of  hosts  that  haste  to  meet 

Seems  gayer  than  the  dance  to  me  ; 
The  lute's  sweet  tones  are  not  so  swee- 

As  the  fierce  shout  of  victory 


118  POEMS. 


TO  A   CLOUD. 

BEAUTIFUL  cloud !  with  folds  so  soft  and  fair, 

Swimming  in  the  pure  quiet  air ! 
Thy  fleeces  bathed  in  sunlight,  while  below 

Thy  shadow  o'er  the  vale  moves  slow ; 
Where,  midst  their  labour,  pause  the  reaper  train 

As  cool  it  comes  along  the  grain. 
Beautiful  cloud !  I  would  I  wTere  with  thee 

In  thy  calm  way  o'er  land  and  sea : 
To  rest  on  thy  unrolling  skirts,  and  look 

On  Earth  as  on  an  open  book ; 
On  streams  that  tie  her  realms  with  silver  bands, 

And  the  long  ways  that  seem  her  lands  ; 
And  hear  her  humming  cities,  and  the  sound 

Of  the  great  ocean  breaking  round. 
Ay — I  would  sail  upon  thy  air-borne  car 

To  blooming  regions  distant  far, 
To  where  the  sun  of  Andalusia  shines 

On  his  own  olive-groves  and  vines, 
Or  the  soft  lights  of  Italy's  bright  sky 

In  smiles  upon  her  ruins  lie. 


TO   A   CLOUD.  119 


But  I  would  woo  the  winds  to  let  us  rest 

O'er  Greece  long  fettered  and  oppressed, 
Whose  sons  at  length  have  heard  the  call  that  comes 

From  the  old  battle-fields  and  tombs, 
And  risen,  and  drawn  the  sword,  and  on  the  foe 

Have  dealt  the  swift  and  desperate  blow, 
And  the  Othman  power  is  cloven,  and  the  stroke 

Has  touched  its  chains,  and  they  are  broke. 
Ay,  we  would  linger  till  the  sunset  there 

Should  come,  to  purple  all  the  air, 
And  thou  reflect  upon  the  sacred  ground 

The  ruddy  radiance  streaming  round. 

Bright  meteor !  for  the  summer  noontide  made ! 

Thy  peerless  beauty  yet  shall  fade. 
The  sun,  that  fills  with  light  each  glistening  ibid, 

Shall  set,  and  leave  thee  dark  and  cold : 
The  blast  shall  rend  thy  skirts,  or  thou  mayst  frown 

In  the  dark  heaven  when  storms  come  down; 
And  weep  in  rain,  till  man's  inquiring  eye 

Miss  thee,  for  ever,  from  the  sky. 


120  POEMS. 


THE  MURDERED   TRAVELLER. 


WHEN  spring,  to  woods  and  wastes  around, 

Brought  bloom  and  joy  again, 
The  murdered  traveller's  bones  were  found, 

Far  down  a  narrow  glen. 

The  fragrant  birch,  above  him,  hung 

Her  tassels  in  the  sky ; 
And  many  a  vernal  blossom  sprung, 

And  nodded  careless  by. 

The  red-bird  warbled,  as  he  wrought 

His  hanging  nest  o'erhead, 
And  fearless,  near  the  fatal  spot, 

Her  young  the  partridge  led. 

But  there  was  weeping  far  away, 

And  gentle  eyes,  for  him, 
With  watching  many  an  anxious  day, 

Were  sorrowful  and  dim. 


MURDERED    TRAVELLER. 


They  little  knew,  who  loved  him  so, 

The  fearful  death  he  met, 
When  shouting  o'er  the  desert  snow, 

Unarmed,  and  hard  beset ; — 

Nor  how,  when  round  the  frosty  pole 

The  northern  dawn  was  red, 
The  mountain  wolf  and  wild-cat  stole 

To  banquet  on  the  dead  ; 

Nor  how,  when  strangers  found  his  bones, 

They  dressed  the  hasty  bier, 
And  marked  his  grave  with  nameless  stones, 

Unmoistened  by  a  tear. 

But  long  they  looked,  and  feared,  and  wept, 

Within  his  distant  home  ; 
And  dreamed,  and  started  as  they  slept, 

For  joy  that  he  was  come. 

Long,  long  they  looked— but  never  spied 

His  welcome  step  again, 
Nor  knew  the  fearful  death  he  died 

Far  down  that  narrow  glen. 


POEMS. 


HYMN  TO  THE  NORTH   STAE. 

THE  sad  and  solemn  night 
Hath  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires ; 

The  glorious  host  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires ; 
All  through  her  silent  watches ,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  climb  the  heavens,  and  go, 

Day,  too,  hath  many  a  star 
To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright  as  they : 

Through  the  blue  fields  afar, 
Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way : 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows  dim, 
Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set  with  him. 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise, 
Star  of  the  Pole  !  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone,  in  thy  cold  skies, 
Thou  keep'st  thy  old  unmoving  station  yet, 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dipp'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western  main. 


HYMN    TO    THE    NORTH    STAR.  m 

There,  at  morn's  rosy  birth, 
Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kindling  air, 

And  eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  day,  beholds  thee  watching  there  ; 
There  noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour  that  calls 
The  shapes  of  polar  flame  to  scale  heaven's  azure  walls. 

Alike,  beneath  thine  eye, 
The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are  done  ; 

High  towards  the  star-lit  sky 
Towns  blaze — the  smoke  of  battle  blots  the  sun — 
The  night-storm  on  a  thousand  hills  is  loud — 
And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle  sea  and  cloud. 

On  thy  unaltering  blaze 
The  half-wrecked  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze, 

And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly  coast ; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes,  by  night, 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide  their  footsteps  right. 

And,  therefore,  bards  of  old, 
Sages,  and  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood, 

Did  in  thy  beams  behold 
A  beauteous  type  of  that  unchanging  good, 
That  bright  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 
The  voyager  of  time  should  shape  his  heedful  way. 


124  POEMS. 


THE  LAPSE  OF  TIME. 

LAMENT  who  will,  in  fruitless  tears, 

The  speed  with  which  our  moments  fly ; 

I  sigh  not  over  vanished  years, 

But  watch  the  years  that  hasten  by. 

Look,  how  they  come,' — a  mingled  crowd 
Of  bright  and  dark,  but  rapid  days ; 

Beneath  them,  like  a  summer  cloud, 
The  wide  world  changes  as  I  gaze. 

What !  grieve  that  time  has  brought  so  soon 
The  sober  age  of  manhood  on ! 

As  idly  might  I  weep,  at  noon, 
To  see  the  blush  of  morning  gone. 

Could  I  give  up  the  hopes  that  glow 

In  prospect  like  Elysian  isles ; 
And  let  the  cheerful  future  go, 

With  all  her  promises  and  smiles  ? 


THE    LAPSE    OF    TIME.  126 

The  future  ! — cruel  were  the  power 

Whose  doom, would  tear  thee  from  my  heart. 

Thou  sweetener  of  the  present  hour ! 
We  cannot — no — we  will  not  part. 

Oh,  leave  me,  still,  the  rapid  flight 
That  makes  the  changing  seasons  gay, 

The  grateful  speed  that  brings  the  night, 
The  swift  and  glad  return  of  day ; 

The  months  that  touch,  with  added  grace, 

This  little  prattler  at  my  knee, 
In  whose  arch  eye  and  speaking  face 

New  meaning  every  hour  I  see  ; 

The  years,  that  o'er  each  sister  land 

Shall  lift  the  country  of  my  birth, 
And  nurse  her  strength,  till  she  shall  stand 

The  pride  and  pattern  of  the  earth  : 

Till  younger  commonwealths,  for  aid, 

Shall  cling  about  her  ample  robe, 
And  from  her  frown  shall  shrink  afraid 

The  crowned  oppressors  of  the  globe. 

True — time  will  seam  and  blanch  my  brow — 

Well — I  shall  sit  with  aged  men, 
And  my  good  glass  will  tell  me  how 

A  grizzly  beard  becomes  me  then. 

L2 


126  POEMS. 


And  then  should  no  dishonour  lie 
Upon  my  head,  when  I  am  gray, 

Love  yet  shall  watch  my  fading  eye, 
And  smooth  the  path  of  my  decay. 

Then  haste  thee,  Time — 'tis  kindness  all 
That  speeds  thy  winged  feet  so  fast : 

Thy  pleasures  stay  not  till  they  pall, 
And  all  thy  pains  are  quickly  past. 

Thou  fliest  and  bear'st  away  our  woes, 
And  as  thy  shadowy  train  depart, 

The  memory  of  sorrow  grows 
A  lighter  burden  on  the  heart. 


SONG    OF    THE    STARS.  127 


SONG  OF  THE   STARS. 

WHEN  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke, 

And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 

And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 

Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty  breath, 

And  orbs  of  beauty  and  spheres  of  flame 

From  the  void  abyss  by  myriads  came, — 

In  the  joy  of  youth  as  they  darted  away, 

Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 

Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rang, 

And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sang: 


"Away,  away,  through  the  wide,  wide  sky, 
The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie, — 
Each  sun  with  the  worlds  that  round  him  roll, 
Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole  ; 
With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white, 
And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light, 


128  POEMS. 


"For  the  source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face, 
And  the  brightness  o'erflows  unbounded  space ; 
And  we  drink  as  we  go  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides  : 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendours  play ; 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path,  away! 

"Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 
In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 
How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass ! 
How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass ! 
And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods  lean 

"And  see  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower  • 
And  the  morn  and  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets  and  shed  their  dews ; 
And  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone  the  night  goes  round ! 

«A\vay,  away!  in  our  blossoming  bowers, 
In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, 
See,  Love  is  brooding,  and  Life  is  born, 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 
To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion,  and  light. 


SONG    OF    THE    STARS.  129 

"Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres, 
To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years ; 
Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent, 
To  the  farthest  wall  of  the  firmament,— 
The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 
To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  your  lamps  are  dim." 


130  POEMS. 


A  FOREST  HYMN. 

THE  groves  were  God's  first  temples.    Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  arefeitrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems  ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 
Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 
And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 


A   FOREST    HYMN.  131 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?     Let  me,  at  least, 
Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim  vaults, 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here — thou  fill'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music  ; — thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 
That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place 
Comes,  scarcely  felt ;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 
The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 


POEMS 


Here  is  continual  worship  ; — nature,  here, 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 

Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 

Fi-om  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  herbs, 

Wells  softly  forth  and  visits  the  strong  roots 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 

Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 

Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak — 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

Ere  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.  •  Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower 

With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love,  — 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 


AFORESTHYMN.  133 

In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
For  ever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die — but  see  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms  :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries* 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them ; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 

M 


134  POEM  S. 


But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
And  tremble  and  are  still.     Oh,  God !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate 
In  these  calm  shades  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


"OH    FAIREST    OF    THE    RURAL    MAIDS."     135 


OH   FAIREST  OF  THE   RURAL  MAIDS." 

OH  fairest  of  the  rural  maids ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades ; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thy  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks ; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  impressed. 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast ; 
The  holy  peace,  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 


136  POEMS. 


I  BROKE  THE  SPELL  THAT  HELD  ME  LONG/ 

I  BROKE  the  spell  that  held  me  long, 

The  dear,  dear  witchery  of  song. 

I  said,  the  poet's  idle  lore 

Shall  waste  my  prime  of  years  no  more, 

For  Poetry,  though  heavenly  born, 

Consorts  with  poverty  and  scorn. 

I  broke  the  spell — nor  deemed  its  power 

Could  fetter  me  another  hour. 

Ah,  thoughtless !  how  could  I  forget 

Its  causes  were  around  me  yet  ? 

For  wheresoe'er  I  looked,  the  while, 

Was  nature's  everlasting  smile. 

Still  came  and  lingered  on  my  sight 

Of  flowers  and  streams  the  bloom  and  light, 

And  glory  of  the  stars  and  sun  ; — 

And  these  and  poetry  are  one. 

They,  ere  the  world  had  held  me  long, 

Recalled  me  to  the  love  of  song. 


JUNE.  137 


JUNE. 

I  GAZED  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round ; 
And  thought  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

Within  the  silent  ground, 
'Twere  pleasant,  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain  turf  should  breal 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould, 
A  coffin  borne  through  sleet, 

And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat — 

Away ! — I  will  not  think  of  these — 

Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze, 
Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 

And  be  the  damp  mould  gentty  pressed 

Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 


x  2 


138  POEMS. 


There  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow ; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 


JUNE.  139 


Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom, 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 
The  gladness  of  the  scene  ; 

Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 
Is — that  his  grave  is  green  ; 

And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 

To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


140  POEMS. 


A  SONG  OF  PITCAIRN'S  ISLAND. 

COME  take  our  boy,  and  we  will  go 

Before  our  cabin  door ; 
The  winds  shall  bring  us,  as  they  blow, 

The  murmurs  of  the  shore  ; 
And  we  will  kiss  his  young  blue  eyes, 
And  I  will  sing  him,  as  he  lies, 

Songs  that  were  made  of  yore  : 
I'll  sing,  in  his  delighted  ear, 
The  island 'lays  thou  lov'st  to  hear. 

And  thou,  while  stammering  I  repeat, 
Thy  country's  tongue  shalt  teach  ; 
'Tis  not  so  soft,  but  far  more  sweet 

Than  my  own  native  speech: 
For  thou  no  other  tongue  didst  know, 
When,  scarcely  twenty  moons  ago, 

Upon  Tahete's  beach, 
Thou  cam'st  to  woo  me  to  be  thine, 
With  many  a  speaking  look  and  sign. 

I  knew  thy  meaning — thou  didst  praise 
My  eyes,  my  locks  of  jet ; 


A  SONG    OF    PITCAIRN'S    ISLAND          141 

All !  well  for  me  they  won  thy  gaze, — 

But  thine  were  fairer  yet ! 
I'm  glad  to  see  my  infant  wear 
Thy  soft  blue  eyes  and  sunny  hair, 

And  when  my  sight  is  met 
By  his  white  brow  and  blooming  cheek, 
I  feel  a  joy  I  cannot  speak. 

Come  talk  of  Europe's  maids  with  me, 
Whose  necks  and  cheeks,  they  tell, 

Outshine  the  beauty  of  the  sea, 

White  foam  and  crimson  shell. 

I'll  shape  like  theirs  my  simple  dress, 

And  bind  like  them  each  jetty  tress, 
A  sight  to  please  thee  well:. 

And  for  my  dusky  brow  will  braid 

A  bonnet  like  an  English  maid. 

Come,  for  the  low  sunlight  calls, 

We  lose  the  pleasant  hours ; 
'Tis  lovelier  than  these  cottage  walls, — 

That  seat  among  the  flowers. 
And  I  will  learn  of  thee  a  prayer, 
To  Him  who  gave  a  home  so  fair, 

A  lot  so  blest  as  ours — 
The  God  who  made,  for  thee  and  me, 
This  sweet  lone  isle  amid  the  sea. 


142  POEMS. 


THE    SKIES. 

AY!  gloriously  thou  standest  there, 
Beautiful,  boundless  firmament ! 

That,  swelling  wide  o'er  earth  and  air, 
And  round  the  horizon  bent, 

With  thy  bright  vault,  and  sapphire  wall, 

Dost  overhang  and  circle  all. 

Far,  far  below  thee,  tall  old  trees 
Arise,  and  piles  built  up  of  old, 

And  hills,  whose  ancient  summits  freeze 
In  the  fierce  light  and  cold. 

The  eagle  soars  his  utmost  height, 

Yet  far  thou  stretchest  o'er  his  flight. 

Thou  hast  thy  frowns — with  thee  on  high 
The  storm  has  made  his  airy  seat, 

Beyond  that  soft  blue  curtain  lie 
His  stores  of  hail  and  sleet. 

Thence  the  consuming  lightnings  break, 

There  the  strong  hurricanes  awake. 


T  H  E    S  K  I  E  S.  143 

Yet  art  thou  prodigal  of  smiles — 

Smiles,  sweeter  than  thy  frowns  are  stern: 

Earth  sends,  from  all  her  thousand  isles, 
A  shout  at  thy  return. 

The  glory  that  comes  down  from  thee, 

Bathes,  in  deep  joy,  the  land  and  sea. 

The  sun,  the  gorgeous  sun  is  thine, 

The  pomp  that  brings  and  shuts  the  day, 

The  clouds  that  round  him  change  and  shine, 
The  airs  that  fan  his  way. 

Thence  look  the  thoughtful  stars,  and  there 

The  meek  moon  walks  the  silent  air. 

The  sunny  Italy  may  boast 

The  beauteous  tints  that  flush  her  skies, 
And  lovely,  round  the  Grecian  coast, 

May  thy  blue  pillars  rise. 
I  only  know  how  fair  they  stand 
Around  my  own  beloved  land. 

And  they  are  fair — a  charm  is  theirs, 

That  earth, the  proud  green  earth,  has  not — 

With  all  the  forms,  and  hues,  and  airs, 
That  haunt  her  sweetest  spot. 

We  gaze  upon  thy  calm  pure  sphere, 

And  read  of  Heaven's  eternal  year. 


144  POEMS. 


Oh,  when,  amid  the  throng  of  men, 
The  heart  grows  sick  of  hollow  mirth, 

How  willingly  we  turn  us  then 
Away  from  this  cold  earth, 

And  look  into  thy  azure  breast, 

For  seats  of  innocence  and  rest ! 


"I    CANNOT    FORGET."  145 


"I  CANNOT  FORGET  WITH  WHAT  FERVID 
DEVOTION." 

I  CANNOT  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion 

I  worshipped  the  visions  of  verse  and  of  fame . 

Each  gaze  at  the  glories  of  earth,  sky,  and  ocean. 
To  my  kindled  emotions,  was  wind  over  flame. 

And  deep  were  my  musings  in  life's  early  blossom, 
Mid  the  twilight  of  mountain  groves  wandering  long ; 

How  thrilled  my  young  veins,  and  how  throbbed  my  full  bosom, 
When  o'er  me  descended  the  spirit  of  song. 

'Mong  the  deep-cloven  fells  that  for  ages  had  listened 
To  the  rush  of  the  pebble-paved  river  between, 

Where  the  kingfisher  screamed  and  gray  precipice  glistened, 
All  breathless  with  awe  have  I  gazed  on  the  scene  ; 

Till  I  felt  the  dark  power  o'er  my  reveries  stealing, 
From  his  throne  in  the  depth  of  that  stern  solitude, 

And  he  breathed  through  my  lips,  in  that  tempest  of  feeling. 
Strains  lofty  or  tender,  though  artless  and  rude. 


146  P  0  E  M  S. 


Bright  visions !  I  mixed  with  the  world,  and  ye  faded  ; 

No  longer  your  pure  rural  worshipper  now ; 
In  the  haunts  your  continual  presence  pervaded. 

Ye  shrink  from  the  signet  of  care  on  my  brow. 

In  the  old  mossy  groves  on  the  breast  of  the  mountain, 
In  deep  lonely  glens  where  the  waters  complain, 

By  the  shade  of  the  rock,  by  the  gush  of  the  fountain, 
I  seek  your  loved  footsteps,  but  seek  them  in  vain. 

Oh,  leave  not,  forlorn  and  for  ever  forsaken, 
Your  pupil  and  victim  to  life  and  its  tears ! 

But  sometimes  return,  and  in  mercy  awaken 
The  glories  ye  showed  to  his  earlier  years. 


TOAMUSQUITO.  147 


TO  A  M.USQUITO. 

FAIR  insect!  that,  with  threadlike  legs  spread  out, 
And  blood-extracting  bill  and  filmy  wing, 

Does  murmur,  as  thou  slowly  sail'st  about, 
In  pitiless  ears  full  many  a  plaintive  thing, 

And  tell  how  little  our  large  veins  should  bleed, 

Would  we  but  yield  them  to  thy  bitter  need. 

Unwillingly,  I  own,  and,  what  is  worse, 
Full  angrily  men  hearkerUo  thy  plaint ; 

Thou  gettest  many  a  brush,  and  many  a  curse, 
For  saying  thou  art  gaunt,  and  starved,  and  faint : 

Even  the  old  beggar,  while  he  asks  for  food, 

Would  kill  thee,  hapless  stranger,  if  he  could. 

I  call  thee  stranger,  for  the  town,  I  ween, 
Has  not  the  honour  of  so  proud  a  birth, — 

Thou  cora'st  from  Jersey  meadows,  fresh  and  green, 
The  offspring  of  the  gods,  though  born  on  earth ; 

For  Titan  was  thy  sire,  and  fair  was  she, 

The  ocean  nymph  that  nursed  thy  infancy. 


148  POEMS. 


Beneath  the  rushes  was  thy  cradle  swung, 

And  when,  at  length,  thy  gauzy  wings  grew  strong, 
Abroad  to  gentle  airs  their  folds  were  flung, 

Rose  in  the  sky  and  bore  thee  soft  along ; 
The  south  wind  breathed  to  waft  thee  on  thy  way, 
And  danced  and  shone  beneath  the  billowy  bay. 

. 
Calm  rose  afar  the  city  spires,  and  thence 

Came  the  deep  murmur  of  its  throng  of  men, 
And  as  its  grateful  odours  met  thy  sense, 

They  seemed  the  perfumes  of  thy  native  fen. 
Fair  lay  its  crowded  streets,  and  at  the  sight 
Thy  tiny  song  grew  shriller  with  delight. 

i 
At  length  thy  pinions  fluttered  in  Broadway — 

Ah,  there  were  fairy  steps,  and  white  necks  kissed 
By  wanton  airs,  and  eyes  whose  killing  ray 

Shone  through  the  snowy  veils  like  stars  through  mist ; 
And  fresh  as  morn,  on  many  a  cheek  and  chin, 
Bloomed  the  bright  blood  through  the  transparent  skin. 

Sure  these  were  sights  to  touch  an  anchorite ! 

What !  do  I  hear  thy  slender  voice  complain  ? 
Thou  wailest,  when  I  talk  of  beauty's  light, 

As  if  it  brought  the  memory  of  pain : 
Thou  art  a  wayward  being — well — come  near, 
And  pour  thy  tale  of  sorrow  in  my  ear. 


TO    A    MUS  QUITO.  H9 

What  sayst  thou — slanderer ! — rouge  makes  thee  sick  ? 

And  China  bloom  at  best  is  sorry  food  ? 
And  Rowland's  Kalydor,  if  laid  on  thick, 

Poisons  the  thirsty  wretch  that  bores  for  blood  ? 
Go !  'twas  a  just  reward  that  met  thy  crime- 
But  shun  the  sacrilege  another  time. 

That  bloom  was  made  to  look  at,  not  to  touch ; 

To  worship,  not  approach,  that  radiant  white ; 
And  well  might  sudden  vengeance  light  on  such 

As  dared,  like  thee,  most  impiously  to  bite. 
Thou  shouldst  have  gazed  at  distance  and  admired, 
Murmured  thy  adoration  and  retired. 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  the  town — but  why  come  here 

To  bleed  a  brother  poet,  gaunt  like  thee  ? 
Alas !  the  little  blood  I  have  is  dear, 

And  thin  will  be  the  banquet  drawn  from.  me. 
Look  round — the  pale-eyed  sisters  in  my  cell, 
Thy  old  acquaintance,  Song  and  Famine,  dwell. 

Try  some  plump  alderman,  and  suck  the  blood 
Enriched  by  generous  wine  and  costly  meat  • 

On  well-filled  skins,  sleek  as  thy  native  mud, 
Fix  thy  light  pump  and  press  thy  freckled  feet : 

Go  to  the  men  for  whom,  in  ocean's  hall, 

The  oyster  breeds,  and  the  green  turtle  sprawls. 

If  2 


350  POEMS. 


There  corks  are  drawn,  and  the  red  vintage  flows 
To  fill  the  swelling  veins  for  thee,  and  now 

The  ruddy  cheek  and  now  the  ruddier  nose 

Shall  tempt  thee,  as  thou  flittest  round  the  brow ; 

And  when  the  hour  of  sleep  its  quiet  brings, 

No  angry  hand  shall  rise  to  brush  thy  wings. 


ON   RKVISITING    THK    COUNTRY.  151 


LINES  ON   REVISITING  THE   COUNTRY. 


I  STAND  upon  my  native  hills  again, 

Broad,  round,  and  green,  that  in  the  summer  sky 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Orchards,  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie, 
While  deep  the  sunless  glens  are  scooped  between, 
Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  unseen. 

A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near, 
And  ever  restless  feet  of  one,  who,  now, 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year ; 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young  brow, 

As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 

Upheaved  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light. 

For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
To  gaze  upon  the  mountains, — to  behold, 

With  deep  affection,  the  pure  ample  sky, 
And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  rolled, — 

To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 

The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 


152  POEMS. 


Here,  I  have  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat, 
Its  horrid  sounds,  and  its  polluted  air; 

And,  where  the  season's  milder  fervours  beat. 
And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 

The  song  of  bird,  and  sound  of  running  stream, 

Am  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 

Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun!  thou  canst  not  wake, 
In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen. 

The  maize  leaf  and  the  maple  bough  but  take, 
From  thy  strong  heats,  a  deeper,  glossier  green. 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  ray, 

Sweeps  the  blue  steams  of  pestilence  away. 

The  mountain  wind  !  most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The  wide  earth  knows;  when,  in  the  sultry  time, 

He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 
He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime! 

As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow 

Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below. 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    FLOWERS.  153 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE  FLOWERS. 


THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown 

and  sear. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves  lie  dead  ; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the  gloomy 

day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately 

sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light,  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas !  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow; 


154  P  O  E  M  S. 


But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  bythe  brook  in  autumn  beauty  stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague 

on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  upland, 

glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such  days 

will  come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home  ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the 

trees  are  still. 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late 

he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side : 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forest  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief: 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


ROMERO.  155 


ROMERO. 

WHEN  freedom,  from  the  land  of  Spain, 

By  Spain's  degenerate  sons  was  driven, 
Who  gave  their  willing  limbs  again 

To  wear  the  chain  so  lately  riven  ; 
Romero  broke  the  sword  he  wore — 
"Go,  faithful  brand,"  the  warrior  said, 
"Go,  undishonoured,  never  more 

The  blood  of  man  shall  make  thee  red : 

I  grieve  for  that  already  shed  ; 
And  I  am  sick  at  heart  to  know, 
That  faithful  friend  and  noble  foe 
Have  only  bled  to  make  more  strong 
The  yoke  that  Spain  has  worn  so  long. 
Wear  it  who  will,  in  abject  fear — 

I  wear  it  not  who  have  been  free ; 
The  perjured  Ferdinand  shall  hear 

No  oath  of  loyalty  from  me." 
Then,  hunted  by  the  hounds  of  power, 

Romero  chose  a  safe  retreat, 
Where  bleak  Nevada's  summits  tower 

Above  the  beauty  at  their  feet. 


156  P  O  E  M  S. 


There  once,  when  on  his  cabin  lay 
The  crimson  light  of  setting  day, 
When  even  on  the  mountain's  breast 
The  chainless  winds  were  all  at  rest, 
And  he  could  hear  the  river's  flow 
From  the  calm  paradise  below ; 
Warmed  with  his  former  fires  again, 
He  framed  this  rude  but  solemn  strain: 


"Here  will  I  make  my  home — for  here  at  least  I  see, 
Upon  this  wild  Sierra's  side,  the  steps  of  Liberty ; 
Where  the  locust  chirps  unscared  beneath  the  unpruned  lime, 
And  the  merry  bee   doth  hide  from  man  the  spoil  of  the 

mountain  thyme ; 
Where  the  pure  winds  come  and  go,  and  the  wild  vine  gads 

at  will, 
An  outcast  from  the  haunts  of  men,  she  dwells  with  Nature  still. 

n. 

"I  see  the  valleys,  Spain !  where  thy  mighty  rivers  run, 
And  the  hills  that  lift  thy  harvests  and  vineyards  to  the  sun, 
And  the  flocks  that  drink  thy  brooks  and  sprinkle  all  the  green, 
Where  lie  thy  plains,  with  sheep-walks  seamed,  and  olive- 
shades  between : 

I  see  thy  fig-trees  bask,  with  the  fair  pomegranate  near, 
And  the  fragrance  of  thy  lemon-groves  can  almost  reach  me  here. 


ROMERO.  157 


in. 

»<Fair — fair — but  fallen  Spain  !  'tis  with  a  swelling  heart, 
That  I  think  on  all  thou  mightst  have  been,  and  look  at  what 

thou  art ; 

But  the  strife  is  over  now,  and  all  the  good  and  brave, 
That  would  have  raised  thee  up,  are  gone,  to  exile  or  the  grave. 
Thy  fleeces  are  for  monks,  thy  grapes  for  the  convent  feast, 
And  the  wealth  of  all  thy  harvest-fields  for  the  pampered  lord 
and  priest. 

IV. 

"But  I  shall  see  the  day — it  will  come  before  I  die — 
I  shall  see  it  in  my  silver  hairs,  and  with  an  age-dimmed  eye ; — 
When  the  spirit  of  the  land  to  liberty  shall  bound, 
As  yonder  fountain  leaps  away  from  the  darknessof  the  ground: 
And  to  my  mountain  cell,  the  voices  of  the  free 
Shall  rise,  as  from  the  beaten  shore  the  thunders  of  the  sea." 


158  P  O  E  M  S. 


A  MEDITATION  ON  KHODE-ISLAND   COAL. 

Decolor,  obscuris,  vilis,  non  ille  repexam 
Cesariem  regum,  non  Candida  virginis  ornat 
Colla,  nee  insigni  splendet  per  cingula  morsu. 
Sed  nova  si  nigri  videas  miracula  saxi, 
Tune  superat  pulchros  cultus  et  quicquid  Eois 
Indus  litoribus  rubra  scrutatur  in  alga, 

CLAUDIAN. 

I  SAT  beside  the  glowing  grate,  fresh  heaped 

With  Newport  coal,  and  as  the  flame  grew  bright 

— The  many-coloured  flame — and  played  and  leaped, 
I  thought  of  rainbows  and  the  northern  light, 

Moore's  Lalla  Rookh,  the  Treasury  Report, 

And  other  brilliant  matters  of  the  sort. 

And  last  I  thought  of  that  fair  isle  which  sent 

The  mineral  fuel ;  on  a  summer  day 
I  saw  it  once,  with  heat  and  travel  spent, 

And  scratched  by  dwarf- oaks  in  the  hollow  way ; 
Now  dragged  through  sand,  now  jolted  over  stone— 
A  rugged  road  through  rugged  Tiverton. 


A   MEDITATION   ON    COAL.  159 


And  hotter  grew  the  air,  and  hollower  grew 

The  deep-worn  path,  and  horror-struck,  I  thought, 

Where  will  this  dreary  passage  lead  me  to  ? 
This  long  dull  road,  so  narrow,  deep,  and  hot? 

I  looked  to  see  it  dive  in  earth  outright ; 

I  looked — but  saw  a  far  more  welcome  sight. 

Like  a  soft  mist  upon  the  evening  shore, 

At  once  a  lovely  isle  before  me  lay, 
Smooth  and  with  tender  verdure  covered  o'er, 

As  if  just  risen  from  its  calm  inland  bay ; 
Sloped  each  way  gently  to  the  grassy  edge, 
And  the  small  waves  that  dallied  with  the  sedge. 

The  barley  was  just  reaped — its  heavy  sheaves 
Lay  on  the  stubble  field — the  tall  maize  stood 

Dark  in  its  summer  growth,  and  shook  its  leaves — 
And  bright  the  sunlight  played  on  the  young  wood — 

For  fifty  years  ago,  the  old  men  say, 

The  Briton  hewed  their  ancient  groves  away. 

I  saw  where  fountains  freshened  the  green  land, 
And  where  the  pleasant  road,  from  door  to  door, 

With  rows  of  cherry-trees  on  either  hand, 
Went  wandering  all  that  fertile  region  o'er — 

Rogue's  Island  once — but  when  the  rogues  were  dead, 

Rhode  Island  was  the  name  it  took  instead. 


160  POEMS. 


Beautiful  island !  then  it  only  seemed 
A  lovely  stranger — it  has  grown  a  friend. 

I  gazed  on  its  smooth  slopes,  but  never  dreamed 
How  soon  that  bright  magnificent  isle  would  send 

The  treasures  of  its  womb  across  the  sea, 

To  warm  a  poet's  room  and  boil  his  tea. 

Dark  anthracite  !  that  reddenest  on  my  hearth, 
Thou  in  those  island  mines  didst  slumber  long ; 

But  now  thou  art  come  forth  to  move  the  earth, 
And  put  to  shame  the  men  that  mean  thee  wrong. 

Thou  shalt  be  coals  of  fire  to  those  that  hate  thee, 

And  warm  the  shins  of  all  that  underrate  thee. 

Yea,  they  did  wrong  thee  foully — they  who  mocked 
Thy  honest  face,  and  said  thou  wouldst  not  burn ; 

Of  hewing  thee  to  chimney-pieces  talked, 

And  grew  profane — and  swore,  in  bitter  scorn, 

That  men  might  to  thy  inner  caves  retire, 

And  there,  unsinged,  abide  the  day  of  fire. 

Yet  is  thy  greatness  nigh.     I  pause  to  state, 
That  I  too  have  seen  greatness — even  I — 

Shook  hands  with  Adams — stared  at  La  Fayette, 
When,  barehead,  in  the  hot  noon  of  July, 

He  would  not  let  the  umbrella  be  held  o'er  him, 

For  which  three  cheers  burst  from  the  mob  before  him. 


A   MEDITATION   ON   COAL.  161 

And  I  have  seen — not  many  months  ago — 

An  eastern  Governor  in  chapeau  bras 
And  military  coat,  a  glorious  show! 

Ride  forth  to  visit  the  reviews,  and  ah! 
How  oft  he  smiled  and  bowed  to  Jonathan ! 
How  many  hands  were  shook  and  votes  were  won ! 

'Twas  a  great  Governor — thou  too  shalt  be 

Great  in  thy  turn — and  wide  shall  spread  thy  fame, 

And  swiftly  ;  farthest  Maine  shall  hear  of  thee, 
And  cold  New  Brunswick  gladden  at  thy  name, 

And,  faintly  through  its  sleets,  the  weeping  isle 

That  sends  the  Boston  folks  their  cod  shall  smile. 

For  thou  shalt  forge  vast  railways,  and  shalt  heat 

The  hissing  rivers  into  steam,  and  drive 
Huge  masses  from  thy  mines,  on  iron  feet, 

Walking  their  steady  way,  as  if  alive. 
Northward,  till  everlasting  ice  besets  thee, 
And  south  as  far  as  the  grim  Spaniard  lets  thee. 

Thou  shalt  make  mighty  engines  swim  the  sea, 
Like  its  own  monsters — boats  that  for  a  guinea 

Will  take  a  man  to  Havre — and  shalt  be 
The  moving  soul  of  many  a  spinning-jenny, 

And  ply  thy  shuttles,  till  a  bard  can  wear 

As  good  a  suit  of  broadcloth  as  the  mayor. 

o2 


162  POEMS. 


Then  we  will  laugh  at  winter  when  we  hear 
The  grim  old  churl  about  our  dwellings  rave : 

Thou,  from  that  "  ruler  of  the  inverted  year," 
Shalt  pluck  the  knotty  sceptre  Cowper  gave, 

And  pull  him  from  his  sledge,  and  drag  him  in, 

And  melt  the  icicles  from  off  his  chin. 


•V 

(. 


THE    NEW    MOON.  163 


THE   NEW   MOON. 

•.   —  '  • '      •  f 

r 

WHEN,  as  the  garish  day  is  done, 
Heaven  burns  with  the  descended  sun, 

'Tis  passing  sweet  to  mark, 
Amid  that  flush  of  crimson  light, 
The  new  moon's  modest  bow  grow  bright, 

As  earth  and  sky  grow  dark. 

Few  are  the  hearts  too  cold  to  feel 
A  thrill  of  gladness  o'er  them  steal, 

When  first  the  wandering  eye 
Sees  faintly,  in  the  evening  blaze, 
That  glimmering  curve  of  tender  rays 

Just  planted  in  the  sky. 

The  sight  of  that  young  crescent  brings 
Thoughts  of  all  fair  and  youthful  things — 

The  hopes  of  early  years  ; 
And  childhood's  purity  and  grace, 
And  joys  that  like  a  rainbow  chase 

The  passing  shower  of  tears. 


164  POEMS. 


The  captive  yields  him  to  the  dream 
Of  freedom,  when  that  virgin  beam 

Comes  out  upon  the  air : 
And  painfully  the  sick  man  tries 
To  fix  his  dim  and  burning  eyes 

On  the  soft  promise  there. 

Most  welcome  to  the  lover's  sight, 
Glitters  that  pure,  emerging  light ; 

For  prattling  poets  say, 
That  sweetest  is  the  lovers'  walk, 
And  tenderest  is  their  murmured  talk, 

Beneath  its,  gentle  ray. 

And  there  do  graver  men  behold 
A  type  of  errors,  loved  of  old, 

Forsaken  and  forgiven ; 
And  thoughts  and  wishes  not  of  earth, 
Just  opening  in  their  early  birth, 

Like  that  new  light  in  heaven. 


O  C  T  O  B  E  K.  105 


OCTOBER. 


A    SONNET. 


AY,  thou  art  welcome,  heaven's  delicious  breath, 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow  brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 

Wind  of  the  sunny  south !  oh  still  delay 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, 
Like  to  a  good  old  age  released  from  care, 

Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 

In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  1 

Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  mid  bowers  and  brooks, 
And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 

And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh  ; 

And  when  my  last  sand  twinkled  in  the  glass, 

Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass. 


166  POEMS. 


THE   DAMSEL    OF   PEEU. 

WHERE  olive  leaves  were  twinkling  in  every  wind  that  blew, 
There  sat  beneath  the  pleasant  shade  a  damsel  of  Peru. 
Betwixt  the  slender  boughs,  as  they  opened  to  the  air, 
Came  glimpses  of  her  ivory  neck  and  of  her  glossy  hair ; 
And  sweetly  rang  her  silver  voice,  within  that  shady  nook, 
As  from  the  shrubby  glen  is  heard  the  sound  of  hidden  brook. 

'Tis  a  song  of  love  and  valour,  in  the  noble  Spanish  tongue. 
That  once  upon  the  sunny  plains  of  old  Castile  was  sung ; 
When,  from  their  mountain  holds,  on  the  Moorish  rout  below, 
Had  rushed  the  Christians  like  a  flood,  and  swept  away  the  foe. 
Awhile  that  melody  is  still,  and  then  breaks  forth  anew 
A  wilder  rhyme,  a  livelier  note,  of  freedom  and  Peru. 

For  she  has  bound  the  sword  to  a  youthful  lover's  side, 
And  sent  him  to  the  war  the  day  she  should  have  been  his  bride, 
And  bade  him  bear  a  faithful  heart  to  battle  for  the  right, 
And  held  the  fountains  of  her  eyes  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 
Since  the  parting  kiss  was  given,  six  weary  months  are  fled, 
And  yet  the  foe  is  in  the  land,  and  blood  must  yet  be  shed. 


THE    DAMSML    OF    PERU.  !67 

A  white  hand  parts  the  branches,  a  lovely  face  looks  forth, 
And  bright  dark  eyes  gaze  steadfastly  and  sadly  toward  the  north. 
Thoulook'st  in  vain,  sweet  maiden,  the  sharpest  sight  would  fail 
To  spy  a  sign  of  human  life  abroad  in  all  the  vale  ; 
For  the  noon  is  coming  on,  and  the  sunbeams  fiercely  beat, 
And  the  silent  hills  and  forest-tops  seem  reeling  in  the  heat. 

That  white  hand  is  withdrawn,  that  fair  sad  face  is  gone, 
But  the  music  of  that  silver  voice  is  flowing  sweetly  on, 
Not  as  of  late,  in  cheerful  tones,  but  mournfully  and  low, — 
A  ballad  of  a  tender  maid  heart-broken  long  ago, 
Of  him  who  died  in  battle,  the  youthful  and  the  brave, 
And  her  who  died  of  sorrow,  upon  his  early  grave. 

But  see,  along  that  mountain's  slope,  a  fiery  horseman  ride ; 
Mark  his  torn  plume,  his  tarnished  belt,  the  sabre  at  his  side. 
His  spurs  are  buried  rowel-deep,  he  rides  with  loosened  rein, 
There's  blood  upon  his  charger's  flank  and  foam  uponthe  mane; 
He  speeds  him  toward  the  olive-grove,  along  that  shaded  hill : 
God  shield  the  helpless  maiden  there,  if  he  should  mean  her  ill ! 

And  suddenly  that  song  has  ceased,  and  suddenly  I  hear 
A  shriek  sent  up  amid  the  shade,  a  shriek — but  not  of  fear. 
For  tender  accents  follow,  and  tenderer  pauses  speak 
The  overflow  of  gladness,  when  words  are  all  too  weak : 
« I  lay  my  good  sword  at  thy  feet,  for  now  Peru  is  free, 
And  I  am  come  to  dwell  beside  the  olive-grove  with  thee." 


168  POEMS. 


THE  AFRICAN  CHIEF. 

CHAINED  in  the  market-place  he  stood, 

A  man  of  giant  frame, 
Amid  the  gathering  multitude 

That  shrunk  to  hear  his  name — 
All  stern  of  look  and  strong  of  limb, 

His  dark  eye  on  the  ground  : — 
And  silently  they  gazed  on  him, 

As  on  a  lion  bound. 

Vainly,  but  well,  that  chief  had  fought, 

He  was  a  captive  now. 
Yet  pride,  that  fortune  humbles  not, 

Was  written  on  his  brow. 
The  scars  his  dark  broad  bosom  wore, 

Showed  warrior  true  and  brave  ; 
A  prince  among  his  tribe  before, 

He  could  not  be  a  slave. 


Then  to  his  conqueror  he  spak 
«  My  brother  is  a  king ; 


THE    AFRICAN    CHIEF. 


Undo  this  necklace  from  my  neck, 
And  take  this  bracelet  ring, 

And  send  me  where  my  brother  reigns, 
And  I  will  fill  thy  hands 

With  store  of  ivory  from  the  plains, 
And  gold-dust  from  the  sands." 

"Not  for  thy  ivory  nor  thy  gold 

Will  I  unbind  thy  chain  ; 
That  bloody  hand  shall  never  hold 

The  battle-spear  again. 
A  price  thy  nation  never  gave 

Shall  yet  be  paid  for  thee ; 
For  thou  shah  be  the  Christian's  slave, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea." 

Then  wept  the  warrior  chief,  and  bade 

To  shred  his  locks  away ; 
And  one  by  one,  each  heavy  braid 

Before  the  victor  lay. 
Thick  were  the  platted  locks,  and  long, 

And  closely  hidden  there 
Shone  many  a  wedge  of  gold  among 

The  dark  and  crisped  hair. 

«  Look,  feast  thy  greedy  eye  with  gold 
Long  kept  for  sorest  need  : 


170  POEMS. 


Take  it — thou  askest  sums  untold. 

And  say  that  I  am  freed. 
Take  it— my  wife,  the  long,  long  day, 

Weeps  by  the  cocoa-tree, 
And  my  young  children  leave  their  play, 

And  ask  in  vain  for  me." 

«I  take  thy  gold — but  I  have  made 

Thy  fetters  fast  and  strong, 
And  ween  that  by  the  cocoa  shade 

Thy  wife  will  wait  thee  long." 
Strong  was  the  agony  that  shook 

The  captive's  frame  to  hear, 
And  the  proud  meaning  of  his  look 

Was  changed  to  mortal  fear. 

His  heart  was  broken — crazed  his  brain  : 

At  once  his  eye  grew  wild ; 
He  struggled  fiercely  with  his  chain, 

Whispered,  and  wept,  and  smiled ; 
Yet  wore  not  long  those  fatal  bands, 

And  once,  at  shut  of  day, 
They  drew  him  forth  upon  the  sands, 

The  foul  hyena's  prey. 


SPRING    IN    TOWN.  171 


SPRING  IN   TOWN. 

THE  country  ever  has  a  lagging  Spring, 
Waiting  for  May  to  call  its  violets  forth, 

And  June  its  roses — showers  and  sunshine  bring, 
Slowly,  the  deepening  verdure  o'er  the  earth ; 

To  put  their  foliage  out,  the  woods  are  slack, 

And  one  by  one  the  singing-birds  come  back. 

Within  the  city's  bounds  the  time  of  flowers 
Comes  earlier.     Let  a  mild  and  sunny  day, 

Such  as  full  often,  for  a  few  bright  hours, 

Breathes  through  the  sky  of  March  the  airs  of  May, 

Shine  on  our  roofs  and  chase  the  wintry  gloom — 

And  lo !  our  borders  glow  with  sudden  bloom. 

For  the  wide  sidewalks  of  Broadway  are  then 
Gorgeous  as  are  a  rivulet's  banks  in  June, 

That  overhung  with  blossoms,  through  its  glen, 
Slides  soft  away  beneath  the  sunny  noon, 

And  they  who  search  the  untrodden  wood  for  flowers 

Meet  in  its  depths  no  lovelier  ones  than  ours. 


172  P  O  E  M  S. 


For  here  are  eyes  that  shame  the  violet, 

Or  the  dark  drop  that  on  the  pansy  lies, 
And  foreheads,  white,  as  when  in  clusters  set, 

The  anemones  by  forest  fountains  rise  ; 
And  the  spring-beauty  boasts  no  tenderer  streak 
Than  the  soft  red  on  many  a  youthful  cheek. 

And  thick  about  those  lovely  temples  lie 

Locks  that  the  lucky  Vignardonne  has  curled, 

Thrice  happy  man !  whose  trade  it  is  to  buy, 

And  bake,  and  braid  those  love-knots  of  the  world ; 

Who  curls  of  every  glossy  colour  keepest, 

And  sellest,  it  is  said,  the  blackest  cheapest. 

And  well  thou  mayst — for  Italy's  brown  maids 

Send  the  dark  locks  with  which  their  brows  are  dressed, 

And  Gascon  lasses,  from  their  jetty  braids, 
Crop  half,  to  buy  a  riband  for  the  rest ; 

But  the  fresh  Norman  girls  their  tresses  spare, 

And  the  Dutch  damsel  keeps  her  flaxen  hair. 

Then,  henceforth,  let  no  maid  nor  matron  grieve, 

To  see  her  locks  of  an  unlovely  hue, 
Frouzy  or  thin,  for  liberal  art  shall  give 

Such  piles  of  curls  as  nature  never  knew. 
Eve,  with  her  veil  of  tresses,  at  the  sight 
Had  blushed,  outdone,  and  owned  herself  a  fright 


SPRING    IN    TOWN.  173 


Soft  voices  and  light  laughter  wake  the  street, 
Like  notes  of  woodbirds,  and  where'er  the  eye 

Threads  the  long  way,  plumes  wave,  and  twinkling  feet 
Fall  light,  as  hastes  that  crowd  of  beauty  by. 

The  ostrich,  hurrying  o'er  the  desert  space, 

Scarce  bore  those  tossing  plumes  with  fleeter  pace. 

No  swimming  Juno  gait,  of  languor  born, 
Is  theirs,  but  a  light  step  of  freest  grace, 

Light  as  Camilla's  o'er  the  unbent  corn, — 
A  step  that  speaks  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Since  Quiet,  meek  old  dame,  was  driven  away 

To  Sing  Sing  and  the  shores  of  Tappan  bay. 

Ye  that  dash  by  in  chariots!  who  will -care 
For  steeds  or  footmen  now  ?  ye  cannot  show 

Fair  face,  and  dazzling  dress,  and  graceful  air, 
And  last  edition  of  the  shape  !     Ah  no, 

These  sights  are  for  the  earth  and  open  sky, 

And  your  loud  wheels  unheeded  rattle  by. 


174  POEMS. 


THE   GLADNESS  OF  NATUEE. 

Is  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad. 

When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around  ; 

When  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 

And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming  ground? 

There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and  wren, 
And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the  sky ; 

The  ground-squirrel  gayly  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 

The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space, 

And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright  green  vale, 

^nd  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 

There's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower, 
There's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree, 

There's  a  smile  on  the  fruit,  and  a  smile  on  the  flower, 
And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the  sea. 

And  look  at  the  broad-faced  sun,  how  he  smiles 
On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray, 

On  the  leaping  waters  and  gay  young  isles ; 
Ay,  look,  and  he'll  smile  thy  gloom  away. 


THE    DISINTERRED    WARRIOR.  171 


THE   DISINTERRED  WARRIOR. 

GATHER  him  to  his  grave  again, 

And  solemnly  and  softly  lay, 
Beneath  the  verdure  of  the  plain, 

The  warrior's  scattered  bones  away. 
Pay  the  deep  reverence,  taught  of  old, 

The  homage  of  man's  heart  to  death  ; 
Nor  dare  to  trifle  with  the  mould 

Once  hallowed  by  the  Almighty's  breath. 

The  soul  hath  quickened  every  part — 

That  remnant  of  a  martial  brow, 
Those  ribs  that  held  the  mighty  heart, 

That  strong  arm — strong  no  longer  now. 
Spare  them,  each  mouldering  relic  spare, 

Of  God's  own  image  ;  let  them  rest, 
Till  not  a  trace  shall  speak  of  where 

The  awful  likeness  was  impressed. 

For  he  was  fresher  from  the  hand 

That  formed  of  earth  the  human  face, 


176  POEMS. 


And  to  the  elements  did  stand 
Tn  nearer  kindred,  than  our  race. 

In  many  a  flood  to  madness  tossed, 
In  many  a  storm  has  been  his  path ; 

He  hid  him  not  from  heat  or  frost, 
But  met  them,  and  defied  their  wrath. 

Then  they  were  kind — the  forests  here, 

Rivers,  and  stiller  waters,  paid 
A  tribute  to  the  net  and  spear 

Of  the  red  ruler  of  the  shade. 
Fruits  on  the  woodland  branches  lay, 

Roots  in  the  shaded  soil  below, 
The  stars  looked  forth  to  teach  his  way, 

The  still  earth  warned  him  of  the  foe. 

A  noble  race !  but  they  are  gone, 

With  their  old  forests  wide  and  deep, 
And  we  have  built  our  homes  upon 

Fields  where  their  generations  sleep. 
Their  fountains  slake  our  thirst  at  noon, 

Upon  their  fields  our  harvest  waves, 
Our  lovers  woo  beneath  their  moon — 

Then  let  us  spare,  at  least,  their  graves ! 


MIDSUMMER.  177 


MIDSUMMER. 


A  SONNET. 


A  POWER  is  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
From  which  the  vital  spirit  shrinks  afraid, 
And  shelters  him,  in  nooks  of  deepest  shade, 

From  the  hot  steam  and  from  the  fiery  glare. 

Look  forth  upon  the  earth — her  thousand  plants 
Are  smitten  ;  even  the  dark  sun-loving  maize 
Faints  in  the  field  beneath  the  torrid  blaze ; 

The  herd  beside  the  shaded  fountain  pants ; 

For  life  is  driven  from  all  the  landscape  brown ; 
The  bird  has  sought  his  tree,  the  snake  his  den, 
The  trout  floats  dead  in  the  hot  stream,  and  me» 

Drop  by  the  sun-stroke  in  the  populous  town : 
As  if  the  Day  of  Fire  had  dawned,  and  sent 
Its  deadly  breath  into  the  firmament. 


178  POEMS. 


THE   GREEK  PARTISAN. 

OUR  free  flag  is  dancing 

In  the  free  mountain  air, 
And  burnished  arms  are  glancing, 

And  warriors  gathering  there  ; 
And  fearless  is  the  little  train 

Whose  gallant  bosoms  shield  it ; 
The  blood  that  warms  their  hearts  shall  stain 

That  banner,  ere  they  yield  it. 
— Each  dark  eye  is  fixed  on  earth, 

And  brief  each  solemn  greeting  ; 
There  is  no  look  nor  sound  of  mirth, 

Where  those  stern  men  are  meeting. 

They  go  to  the  slaughter, 

To  strike  the  sudden  blow, 
And  pour  on  earth,  like  water, 

The  best  blood  of  the  foe  ; 
To  rush  on  them  from  rock  and  height, 

And  clear  the  narrow  valley, 


THE    GHMKK    PARTISAN.  179 


Or  fire  their  camp  at  dead  of  night, 

And  fly  before  they  rally. 
— Chains  are  round  our  country  pressed. 

And  cowards  have  betrayed  her, 
And  we  must  make  her  bleeding  breast 

The  grave  of  the  invader. 

Not  till  from  her  fetters 

We  raise  up  Greece  again, 
And  write,  in  bloody  letters, 

That  tyranny  is  slain, — 
Oh,  not  till  then  the  smile  shall  steal 

Across  those  darkened  faces, 
Nor  one  of  all  those  warriors  feel 

His  childreu's-dear  embraces. 
—Reap  we  not  the  ripened  wheat, 

Till  yonder  hosts  are  flying, 
And  all  their  bravest,  at  our  feet, 

Like  autumn  sheaves  are  lying 


180  P  0  £  M  S. 


THE  TWO    GRAVES. 

'Tis  a  bleak  wild  hill, — but  green  and  bright 
In  the  summer  warmth  and  the  mid-day  light ; 
There's  the  hum  of  the  bee  and  the  chirp  of  the  wren, 
And  the  dash  of  the  brook  from  the  alder  glen ; 
There's  the  sound  of  a  bell  from  the  scattered  flock, 
And  the  shade  of  the  beech  lies  cool  on  the  rock, 
And  fresh  from  the  west  is  the  free  wind's  breath, — 
There  is  nothing  here  that  speaks  of  death. 

Far  yonder,  where  orchards  and  gardens  lie, 
And  dwellings  cluster,  'tis  there  men  die. 
They  are  born,  they  die,  and  are  buried  near, 
Where  the  populous  grave-yard  lightens  the  bier ; 
For  strict  and  close  are  the  ties  that  bind 
In  death  the  children  of  human-kind ; 
Yea,  stricter  and  closer  than  those  of  life, — 
'Tis  a  neighbourhood  that  knows  no  strife. 
They  are  noiselessly  gathered — friend  and  foe — 
To  the  still  and  dark  assemblies  below : 


THE    TWO    GRAVES.  181 


Without  a  frown  or  a  smile  they  meet, 
Each  pale  and  calm  in  his  winding-sheet ; 
In  that  sullen  home  of  peace  and  gloom, 
Crowded,  like  guests  in  a  banquet-room. 

Yet  there  are  graves  in  this  lonely  spot, 
Two  humble  graves,— but  I  meet  them  not. 
I  have  seen  them, — eighteen  years  are  past, 
Since  I  found  their  place  in  the  brambles  last, — 
The  place  where,  fifty  winters  ago, 
An  aged  man  in  his  locks  of  snow, 
And  an  aged  matron,  withered  with  years, 
Were  solemnly  laid  ! — but  not  with  tears. 
For  none,  who  sat  by  the  light  of  their  hearth, 
Beheld  their  coffins  covered  with  earth ; 
Their  kindred  were  far,  and  their  children  dead, 
When  the  funeral  prayer  was  coldly  said. 

Two  low  green  hillocks,  two  small  gray  stones, 
Rose  over  the  place  that  held  their  bones ; 
But  the  grassy  hillocks  are  levelled  again, 
And  the  keenest  eye  might  search  in  vain, 
'Mong  briers,  and  ferns,  and  paths  of  sheep, 
For  the  spot  where  the  aged  couple  sleep. 

Yet  well  might  they  lay,  beneath  the  soil 
Of  this  lonely  spot,  that  man  of  toil, 


182  POEMS. 


And  trench  the  strong  hard  mould  with  the  spade, 
Where  never  before  a  grave  was  made ; 
For  he  hewed  the  dark  old  woods  away, 
And  gave  the  virgin  fields  to  the  day  ^ 
And  the  gourd  and  the  bean,  beside  his  door, 
Bloomed  where  their  flowers  ne'er  opened  before ; 
And  the  maize  stood  up,  and  the  bearded  rye 
Bent  low  in  the  breath  of  an  unknown  sky. 

'-.  •  i**"'  ;  \     "  -  t_ 

'Tis  said  that  when  life  is  ended  here, 
The  spirit  is  borne  to  a  distant  sphere ; 
That  it  visits  its  earthly  home  no  more, 
Nor  looks  on  the  haunts  it  loved  before. 
But  why  should  the  bodiless  soul  be  sent 
Far  off,  to  a  long,  long  banishment  ? 
Talk  not  of  the  light  and  the  living  green ! 
It  will  pine  for  the  dear  familiar  scene ; 
It  will  yearn,  in  that  strange  bright  world,  to  behold 
The  rock  and  the  stream  it  knew  of  old. 

'Tis  a  cruel  creed,  believe  it  not ! 
Death  to  the  good  is  a  milder  lot. 
They  are  here, — they  are  here, — that  harmless  pair, 
In  the  yellow  sunshine  and  flowing  air, 
In  the  light  cloud-shadows  that  slowly  pass, 
In  the  sounds  that  rise  from  the  murmuring  grass. 


THE    TWO    GRAVES.  183 

They  sit  where  their  humble  cottage  stood, 

They  walk  by  the  waving  edge  of  the  wood, 

And  list  to  the  long-accustomed  flow 

Of  the  brook  that  wets  the  rocks  below. 

Patient,  and  peaceful,  and  passionless, 

As  seasons  on  seasons  swiftly  press, 

They  watch,  and  wait,  and  linger  around, 

Till  the  day  when  their  bodies  shall  leave  the  ground. 


184  POEMS. 


THE  CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITER  AND  VENUS. 


I  WOULD  not  always  reason.     The  straight  path 
Wearies  us  with  its  never-varying  lines, 
And  we  grow  melancholy.     I  would  make 
Reason  my  guide,  but  she  should  sometimes  sit 
Patiently  by  the  way-side,  while  I  traced 
The  mazes  of  the  pleasant  wilderness 
Around  me.     She  should  be  my  counsellor, 
But  not  my  tyrant.     For  the  spirit  needs 
Impulses  from  a  deeper  source  than  hers, 
And  there  are  motions,  in  the  mind  of  man, 
That  she  must  look  upon  with  awe.     I  bow 
Reverently  to  her  dictates,  but  not  less 
Hold  to  the  fair  illusions  of  old  time — 
Illusions  that  shed  brightness  over  life, 
And  glory  over  nature.     Look,  even  now, 
Where  two  bright  planets  in  the  twilight  meet, 
Upon  the  saffron  heaven, — the  imperial  star 
Of  Jove,  and  she  that  from  her  radiant  urn 
Pours  forth  the  light  of  love.     Let  me  believe, 
Awhile,  that  they  are  met  for  ends  of  good, 


CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITER  AND  VENUS.      185 

Amid  the  evening  glory,  to  confer 

Of  men  and  their  affairs,  and  to  shed  down 

Kind  influence.     Lo  !  they  brighten  as  we  gaze, 

And  shake  out  softer  fires!     The  great  earth  feels 

The  gladness  and  the  quiet  of  the  time. 

Meekly  the  mighty  river,  that  infolds 

This  mighty  city,  smooths  his  front,  and  far 

Glitters  and  burns  even  to  the  rocky  base 

Of  the  dark  heights  that  bound  him  to  the  west ; 

And  a  deep  murmur,  from  the  many  streets, 

Rises  like  a  thanksgiving.     Put  we  hence 

Dark  and  sad  thoughts  awhile — there's  time  for  them 

Hereafter — on  the  morrow  we  will  meet, 

With  melancholy  looks,  to  tell  our  griefs, 

And  make  each  other  wretched ;  this  calm  hour, 

This  balmy,  blessed  evening,  we  will  give 

To  cheerful  hopes  and  dreams  of  happy  days, 

Born  of  the  meeting  of  those  glorious  stars. 

Enough  of  drought  has  parched  the  year,  and  scared 
The  land  with  dread  of  famine.     Autumn,  yet, 
Shall  make  men  glad  with  unexpected  fruits. 
The  dog-star  shall  shine  harmless :  genial  days 
Shall  softly  glide  away  into  the  keen 
And  wholesome  cold  of  winter ;  he  that  fears 
The  pestilence,  shall  gaze  on  those  pure  beams, 
And  breathe,  with  confidence,  the  quiet  air. 


186  P  O  E  M  S. 


Emblems  of  power  and  beauty!  well  may  they 
Shine  brightest  on  our  borders,  and  withdraw 
Towards  the  great  Pacific,  marking  out 
The  path  of  empire.     Thus,  in -our  own  land, 
Ere  long,  the  better  Genius  of  our  race, 
Having  encompassed  earth,  and  tamed  its  tribes, 
Shall  sit  him  down  beneath  the  farthest  west, 
By  the  shore  of  that  calm  ocean,  and  look  back 
On  realms  made  happy. 

Light  the  nuptial  torch, 
And  say  the  glad,  yet  solemn  rite,  that  knits 
The  youth  and  maiden.     Happy  days  to  them 
That  wed  this  evening! — a  long  life  of  love, 
And  blooming  sons  and  daughters !     Happy  they 
Born  at  this  hour, — for  they  shall  see  an  age 
Whiter  and  holier  than  the  past,  and  go 
Late  to  their  graves.     Men  shall  wear  softer  hearts, 
And  shudder  at  the  butcheries  of  war, 
As  now  at  other  murders. 

Hapless  Greece! 

Enough  of  blood  has  wet  thy  rocks,  and  stained 
Thy  rivers  ;  deep  enough  thy  chains  have  worn 
Their  links  into  thy  flesh ;  the  sacrifice 
Of  thy  pure  maidens,  and  thy  innocent  babes, 
And  reverend  priests,  has  expiated  all 


CONJUNCTION   OF  JUPITER  AND    VENUS.      187 

Thy  crimes  bf  old.     In  yonder  mingling  lights 
There  is  an  omen  of  good  days  for  thee. 
Thou  shalt  arise  from  midst  the  dust  and  sit 
Again  among  the  nations.     Thine  own  arm 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee.     Not  in  wars  like  thine 
The  world  takes  part.     Be  it  a  strife  of  kings,— 
Despot  with  despot  battling  for  a  throne, — 
And  Europe  shall  be  stirred  throughout  her  realms, 
Nations  shall  put  on  harness,  and  shall  fall 
Upon  each  other,  and  in  all  their  bounds 
The  wailing  of  the  childless  shall  not  cease. 
Thine  is  a  war  for  liberty,  and  thou 
Must  fight  it  single-handed.     The  old  world 
Looks  coldly  on  the  murderers  of  thy  race, 
And  leaves  thee  to  the  struggle ;  and  the  new, — 
I  fear  me  thou  couldst  tell  a  shameful  tale 
Of  fraud  and  lust  of  gain  ;— thy  treasury  drained, 
And  Missolonghi  fallen.     Yet  thy  wrongs 
Shall  put  new  strength  into  thy  heart  and  hand, 
And  God  and  thy  good  sword  shall  yet  work  out, 
For  thee,  a  terrible  deliverance. 


188  P  O  E  M  S. 


A  SUMMER  RAMBLE. 

THE  quiet  August  noon  has  come, 
A  slumberous  silence  fills  the  sky, 

The  fields  are  still,  the  woods  are  dumb, 
In  glassy  sleep  the  waters  lie. 

And  mark  yon  soft  white  clouds  that  rest 
Above  our  vale,  a  moveless  throng ; 

The  cattle  on  the  mountain's  breast 
Enjoy  the  grateful  shadow  long. 

Oh,  how  unlike  those  merry  hours 
In  early  June  when  Earth  laughs  out, 

When  the  fresh  winds  make  love  to  flowen 
And  woodlands  sing  and  waters  shout. 

When  in  the  grass  sweet  voices  talk, 
And  strains  of  tiny  music  swell 

From  every  moss-cup  of  the  rock, 
From  every  nameless  blossom's  bell. 


A    SUMMER    RAMBLE. 


But  now  a  joy  too  deep  for  sound, 
A  peace  no  other  season  knows, 

Hushes  the  heavens  and  wraps  the  ground, 
The  blessing  of  supreme  repose. 

Away !  I  will  not  be,  to-day, 
The  only  slave  of  toil  and  care. 

Away  from  desk  and  dust !  away  ! 
I'll  be  as  idle  as  the  air. 

Beneath  the  open  sky  abroad, 

Among  the  plants  and  breathing  things, 

t*  ^ 

The  sinless,  peaceful  works  of  God, 
I'll  share  the  calm  the  season  brings. 

Come,  thou,  in  whose  soft  eyes  I  see 
The  gentle  meanings  of  thy  heart, 

One  day  amid  the  woods  with  me, 
From  men  and  all  their  cares  apart. 

And  where,  upon  the  meadow's  breast, 
The  shadow  of  the  thicket  lies, 

The  blue  wild  flowers  thou  gatherest 
Shall  glow  yet  deeper  near  thine  eyes. 

Come,  and  when  mid  the  calm  profound, 
I  turn,  those  gentle  eyes  to  seek, 

They,  like  the  lovely  landscape  round, 
Of  innocence  and  peace  shall  speak. 


190  POEMS. 


Rest  here,  beneath  the  unmoving  shade, 

And  on  the  silent  valleys  gaze, 
Winding  and  widening,  till  they  fade 

In  yon  soft  ring  of  summer  haze. 

The  village  trees  their  summits  rear 
Still  as  its  spire,  and  yonder  flock 

At  rest  in  those  calm  fields  appear 
As  chiselled  from  the  lifeless  rock. 

One  tranquil  mount  the  scene  o'erlooks — 
There  the  hushed  winds  their  sabbath  keep, 

While  a  near  hum  from  bees  and  brooks 
Comes  faintly  like  the  breath  of  sleep. 

Well  may  the  gazer  deem  that  when, 
Worn  with  the  struggle  and  the  strife, 

And  heart-sick  at  the  wrongs  of  men, 
The  good  forsakes  the  scene  of  life ; 

Like  this  deep  quiet  that,  awhile, 
Lingers  the  lovely  landscape  o'er, 

Shall  be  the  peace  whose  holy  smile 
Welcomes  him  to  a  happier  shore. 


A  SCENE   ON   THE    HUDSON. 


A  SCENE  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  HUDSON, 

COOL  shades  and  dews  are  round  my  way, 
And  silence  of  the  early  day ; 
Mid  the  dark  rocks  that  watch  his  bed, 
Glitters  the  mighty  Pludson  spread, 
Unrippled,  save  by  drops  that  fall 
From  shrubs  that  fringe  his  mountain  wall ; 
And  o'er  the  clear  still  water  swells 
The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells.  ; 

All,  save  this  little  nook  of  land 
Circled  with  trees,  on  which  I  stand ; 
All,  save  that  line  of  hills  which  lie 

Suspended  in  the  mimic  sky 

Seems  a  blue  void,  above,  below, 
Through  which  the  white  clouds  come  and  go, 
And  from  the  green  world's  farthest  steep 
I  gaze  into  the  airy  deep. 

Loveliest  of  lovely  things  are  they, 
On  earth,  that  soonest  pass  away. 


192  POEMS. 


The  rose  that  lives  its  little  hour 
Is  prized  beyond  the  sculptured  flower. 
Even  love,  long  tried  and  cherished  long, 
Becomes  more  tender  and  more  strong, 
At  thought  of  that  insatiate  grave 
From  which  its  yearnings  cannot  save. 

River !  in  this  still  hour  thou  hast 
Too  much  of  heaven  on  earth  to  last ; 
Nor  long  may  thy  still  waters  lie, 
An  image  of  the  glorious  sky. 
Thy  fate  and  mine  are  not  repose, 
And  ere  another  evening  close, 
Thou  to  thy  tides  shalt  turn  again, 
\nd  I  to  seek  the  crowd  of  men. 


THE    HURRICANE.  193 


THE   HUERICANE. 

LORD  of  the  winds !  I  feel  thee  nigh, 
I  know  thy  breath  in  the  burning  sky ! 
And  I  wait,  with  a  thrill  in  every  vein, 
For  the  coming  of  the  hurricane! 

And  lo !  on  the  wing  of  the  heavy  gales, 
Through  the  boundless  arch  of  heaven  he  sails  ; 
Silent  and  slow,  and  terribly  strong, 
The  mighty  shadow  is  borne  along, 
Like  the  dark  eternity  to  come ; 
While  the  world  below,  dismayed  and  dumb, 
Through  the  calm  of  the  thick  hot  atmosphere 
Looks  up  at  its  gloomy  folds  with  fear. 

They  darken  fast ;  and  the  golden  blaze 
Of  the  sun  is  quenched  in  the  lurid  haze, 
And  he  sends  through  the  shade  a  funeral  ray- 
A  glare  that  is  neither  night  nor  day, 
A  beam  that  touches,  with  hues  of  death, 
The  clouds  above  and  the  earth  beneath. 


194  POEMS. 


To  its  covert  glides  the  silent  bird, 
While  the  hurricane's  distant  voice  is  heard, 
Uplifted  among  the  mountains  round, 
And  the  forests  hear  and  answer  the  sound. 

He  is  come !  he  is  come !  do  ye  not  behold 
His  ample  robes  on  the  wind  unrolled  ? 
Giant  of  air !  we  bid  thee  hail ! — 
How  his  gray  skirts  toss  in  the  whirling  gale ; 
How  his  huge  and  writhing  arms  are  bent, 
To  clasp  the  zone  of  the  firmament, 
And  fold  at  length,  in  their  dark  embrace, 
From  mountain  to  mountain  the  visible  space. 

Darker — still  darker !  the  whirlwinds  bear 
The  dust  of  the  plains  to  the  middle  air : 
And  hark  to  the  crashing,  long  and  loud, 
Of  the  chariot  of  God  in  the  thunder-cloud ! 
You  may  trace  its  path  by  the  flashes  that  start 
From  the  rapid  wheels  where'er  they  dart, 
As  the  fire-bolts  leap  to  the  world  below. 
And  flood  the  skies  with  a  lurid  glow. 

What  roar  is  that  ? — 'tis  the  rain  that  breaks 
In  torrents  away  from  the  airy  lakes. 
Heavily  poured  on  the  shuddering  ground, 
And  shedding  a  nameless  horror  round. 


THE    HURRICANE.  195 

Ah !  well  known  woods,  and  mountains,  and  skies, 

With  the  very  clouds ! — ye  are  lost  to  my  eyes. 

I  seek  ye  vainly,  and  see  in  your  place 

The  shadowy  tempest  that  sweeps  through  space, 

A  whirling  ocean  that  fills  the  wall 

Of  the  crystal  heaven,  and  buries  all. 

And  I,  cut  off  from  the  world,  remain 

Alone  with  the  terrible  hurricane. 


196  POEMS. 


WILLIAM  TELL. 


CHAINS  may  subdue  the  feeble  spirit,  but  thee, 
TELL,  of  the  iron  heart!  they  could  not  tame ! 
For  thou  wert  of  the  mountains  ;  they  proclaim 

The  everlasting  creed  of  liberty. 

That  creed  is  written  on  the  untrampled  snow, 
Thundered  by  torrents  which  no  power  can  hold, 
Save  that  of  God,  wiien  he  sends  forth  his  cold, 

And  breathed  by  winds  that  through  the  free  heaven,  blow. 

Thou,  while  thy  prison  walls  were  dark  around, 
Didst  meditate  the  lesson  Nature  taught, 
And  to  thy  brief  captivity  was  brought 

A  vision  of  thy  Switzerland  unbound. 

The  bitter  cup  they  mingled,  strengthened  thee 
For  the  great  work  to  set  thy  country  free. 


THE    HUNTER'S    SERENADE.  197 


THE   HUNTER'S   SERENADE. 


THY  bower  is  finished,  fairest! 

Fit  bower  for  hunter's  bride — 
Where  old  woods  overshadow 

The  green  savanna's  side. 
I've  wandered  long,  and  wandered  far, 

And  never  have  I  met, 
In  all  this  lovely  western  land, 

A  spot  so  lovely  yet. 
But  I  shall  think  it  fairer, 

When  thou  art  come  to  bless, 
With  thy  sweet  smile  and  silver  voice, 

Its  silent  loveliness. 

For  thee  the  wild  grape  glistens, 

On  sunny  knoll  and  tree, 
The  slim  papaya  ripens 

Its  yellow  fruit  for  thee. 
For  thee  the  duck,  on  glassy  stream, 

The  prairie-fowl  shall  die, 

R  2 


199  POEMS. 


My  rifle  for  thy  feast  shall  bring 

The  wild  swan  from  the  sky. 
The  forest's  leaping  panther, 

Fierce,  beautiful,  and  fleet, 
Shall  yield  his  spotted  hide  to  be 

A  carpet  for  thy  feet. 

I  know,  for  thou  hast  told  me, 

Thy  maiden  love  of  flowers ; 
Ah,  those  that  deck  thy  gardens 

Are  pale  compared  with  ours. 
When  our  wide  woods  and  mighty  lawns 

Bloom  to  the  April  skies, 
The  earth  has  no  more  gorgeous  sight 

To  show  to  human  eyes. 
In  meadows  red  with  blossoms, 

All  summer  long,  the  bee 
Murmurs,  and  loads  his  yellow  thighs, 

For  thee,  my  love,  and  me. 

Or  wouldst  thou  gaze  at  tokens 

Of  ages  long  ago — 
Our  old  oaks  stream  with  mosses, 

And  sprout  with  mistletoe ; 
And  mighty  vines,  like  serpents,  climb 

The  giant  sycamore ; 


THE    HUNTER'S    SERENADE.  199 

And  trunks,  overthrown  for  centuries, 

Cumber  the  forest  floor  ; 
And  in  the  great  savanna, 

The  solitary  mound, 
Built  by  the  elder  world,  o'erlooks 

The  loneliness  around. 

Come,  thou  hast  not  forgotten 

Thy  pledge  and  promise  quite, 
With  many  blushes  murmured, 

Beneath  the  evening  light. 
Come,  the  young  violets  crowd  my  door, 

Thy  earliest  look  to  win, 
And  at  my  silent  window-sill 

The  jessamine  peeps  in. 
All  day  the  red-bird  warbles, 

Upon  the  mulberry  near, 
And  the  night-sparrow  trills  her  song, 

All  night,  with  none  to  hear. 


200  POEMS. 


THE   GREEK  BOY. 

GONE  are  the  glorious  Greeks  of  old, 

Glorious  in  mien  and  mind  ; 
Their  bones  are  mingled  with  the  mould, 

Their  dust  is  on  the  wind ; 
The  forms  they  hewed  from  living  stone 
Survive  the  waste  of  years,  alone, 
And,  scattered  with  their  ashes,  show 
What  greatness  perished  long  ago. 

Yet  fresh  the  myrtles  there — the  springs 

Gush  brightly  as  of  yore ; 
Flowers  blossom  from  the  dust  of  kings, 

As  many  an  age  before. 
There  nature  moulds  as  nobly  now, 
As  e'er  of  old,  the  human  brow ; 

And  copies  still  the  martial  form 

^ 

That  braved  Platsea's  battle  storm. 

Boy !  thy  first  looks  were  taught  to  seek 
Their  heaven  in  Hellas'  skies ; 


THE    GREEK    BOY.  301 


Her  airs  have  tinged  thy  dusky  cheek, 

Her  sunshine  lit  thine  eyes  ; 
Thine  ears  have  drunk  the  woodland  strains 
Heard  by  old  poets,  and  thy  veins 
Swell  with  the  blood  of  demigods, 
That  slumber  in  thy  country's  sods. 

Now  is  thy  nation  free — though  late — 

Thy  elder  brethren  broke — 
Broke,  ere  thy  spirit  felt  its  weight, 

The  intolerable  yoke. 

And  Greece,  decayed,  dethroned,  doth  see 
Her  youth  renewed  in  such  as  thee : 
A  shoot  of  that  old  vine  that  made 
The  nations  silent  in  its  shade. 


202  POEMS. 


THE  PAST. 


THOU  unrelenting  Past ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

'..,'"•  ,.     t    .    ' ".,,  ,-    iv 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,  Manhood,  Age,  that  draws  us  to  the  ground, 

And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends — the  good — the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 
The  venerable  form — the  exalted  mind. 


THEPAST.  203 


My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back — yearns  with  desire  intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 

In  vain — thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back — nor  to  the  broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown — to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea; 

Labours  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished  charity,  unbroken  faith, — 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  faltered  not  in  death 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unuttered,  unrevered  ; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they — 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last ; 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past ! 


304  POEMS. 


All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perished — no  ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat. 

All  shall  come  back,  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again  ; 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave — the  beautiful  and  young. 


"THE    MOUNTAIN'S    DISTANT    HEAD."     205 


"UPON  THE  MOUNTAIN'S  DISTANT  HEAD." 

UPON  the  mountain's  distant  head, 
With  trackless  snows  for  ever  white, 

Where  all  is  still,  and  cold,  and  dead, 
Late  shines  the  day's  departing  light. 

But  far  below  those  icy  rocks, 

The  vales,  in  summer  bloom  arrayed, 

Woods  full  of  birds,  and  fields  of  flocks, 
Are  dim  with  mist  and  dark  with  shade. 

}Tis  thus,  from  warm  and  kindly  hearts, 
And  eyes  where  generous  meanings  burn, 

Earliest  the  light  of  life  departs, 
But  lingers  with  the  cold  and  stern. 


206  POEMS. 


THE  EVENING  WIND. 

SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow : 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea! 

Nor  I  alone — a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go  forth, 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 


THE    EVENING    WIND.  207 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 

Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 
The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast: 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 
The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 
And  where  the  overshadowing  branches  sweep  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee  ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep : 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 
With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range 

Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once  more ; 
Sweet  odours  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 

Shall  tell  the  home- sick  mariner  of  the  shore  ; 
And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 
He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 


308  POEMS. 


WHEN  THE  FIRMAMENT  QUIVERS  WITH  DAY 
LIGHT'S  YOUNG  BEAM." 


WHEN  the  firmament  quivers  with  daylight's  young  beam, 
And  the  woodlands  awaking  burst  into  a  hymn, 

And  the  glow  of  the  sky  blazes  back  from  the  stream, 

How  the  bright  ones  of  heaven  in  the  brightness  grow  dim. 

Oh !  'tis  sad,  in  that  moment  of  glory  and  song, 
To  see,  while  the  hill-tops  are  waiting  the  sun, 

The  glittering  band  that  kept  watch  all  night  long 
O'er  Love  and  o'er  Slumber,  go  out  one  by  one : 

Till  the  circle  of  ether,  deep,  ruddy,  and  vast, 

Scarce  glimmers  with  one  of  the  train  that  were  there  ; 

And  their  leader  the  day-star,  the  brightest  and  last, 
Twinkles  faintly  and  fades  in  that  desert  of  air. 

Thus,  Oblivion,  from  midst  of  whose  shadow  we  came, 
Steals  o'er  us  again  when  life's  twilight  is  gone ; 

And  the  crowd  of  bright  names,  in  the  heaven  of  fame, 
Grow  pale  and  are  quenched  as  the  years  hasten  on. 


"WHEN    THE    FIRMAMENT    QUIVERS."     209 

Let  them  fade — but  we'll  pray  that  the  age,  in  whose  flight, 
Of  ourselves  and  our  friends  the  remembrance  shall  die 

May  rise  o'er  the  world,  with  the  gladness  and  light 
Of  the  morning  that  withers  the  stars  from  the  sky. 


•  s 


210  POEMS. 


"  INNOCENT  CHILD  AND  SNOW-WHITE 
FLOWER" 

INNOCENT  child  and  snow-white  flower! 
Well  are  ye  paired  in  your  opening  hour. 
Thus  should  the  pure  and  the  lovely  meet, 
Stainless  with  stainless,  and  sweet  with  sweet. 

White  as  those  leaves,  just  blown  apart, 
Are  the  folds  of  thy  own  young  heart ; 
Guilty  passion  and  cankering  care 
Never  have  left  their  traces  there. 

Artless  one  !  though  thou  gazest  now 
O'er  the  white  blossom  with  earnest  brow, 
Soon  will  it  tire  thy  childish  eye ; 
Fair  as  it  is,  thou  wilt  tnrow  it  by. 

Throw  it  aside  in  thy  weary  hour, 
Throw  to  the  ground  the  fair  white  flower ; 
Yet,  as  thy  tender  years  depart, 
Keep  that  white  and  innocent  heart. 


TO    THE    RIVER    ARVE.  211 


TO  THE  RIVER  ARVE. 

IUPPO8HD  TO  BE  WRITTEN  AT  A  HAMLET  NEAR  THE  FOOT  OK  MONT  BLANO. 

NOT  from  the  sands  or  cloven  rocks, 

Thou  rapid  Arve !  thy  waters  flow  ; 
Nor  earth,  within  her  bosom,  locks 

Thy  dark  unfathomed  wells  below. 
Thy  springs  are  in  the  cloud,  thy  stream 

Begins  to  move  and  murmur  first 
Where  ice-peaks  feel  the  noonday  beam, 

Or  rain-storms  on  the  glacier  burst. 

Born  where  the  thunder  and  the  blast, 

And  morning's  earliest  light  are  born, 
Thou  rushest  swoln,  and  loud,  and  fast, 

By  these  low  homes,  as  if  in  scorn : 
Yet  humbler  springs  yield  purer  waves ; 

And  brighter,  glassier  streams  than  thine, 
Sent  up  from  earth's  unlighted  caves, 

With  heaven's  own  beam  and  image  shine. 


212  POEMS. 


Yet  stay ;  for  here  are  flowers  and  trees ; 

Warm  rays  on  cottage  roofs  are  here, 
And  laugh  of  girls,  and  hum  of  bees — 

Here  linger  till  thy  waves  are  clear. 
Thou  heedest  not — thou  hastest  on ; 

From  steep  to  steep  thy  torrent  falls, 
Till,  mingling  with  the  mighty  Rhone, 

It  rests  beneath  Geneva's  walls. 

Rush  on — but  were  there  one  with  me 

That  loved  me,  I  would  light  my  hearth 
Here,  where  with  God's  own  majesty 

Are  touched  the  features  of  the  earth. 
By  these  old  peaks,  white,  high,  and  vast, 

Still  rising  as  the  tempests  beat, 
Here  would  I  dwell,  and  sleep,  at  last. 

Among  the  blossoms  at  their  feet. 


TO    COLE,    THE    PAINTER.  213 


TO  COLE,  THE  PAINTER,  DEPARTING  FOR 
EUROPE. 


THINE  eyes  shall  see  the  light  of  distant  skies : 

Yet,  COLE  !  thy  heart  shall  bear  to  Europe's  strand 
A  living  image  of  thy  native  land, 

Such  as  on  thine  own  glorious  canvas  lies  ; 

Lone  lakes — savannas  where  the  bison  roves — - 

Rocks  rich  with  summer  garlands — solemn  streams- 
Skies,  where  the  desert  eagle  wheels  and  screams — 

Spring  bloom  and  autumn  blaze  of  boundless  groves. 

Fair  scenes  shall  greet  thee  where  thou  goest — fair, 
But  different — everywhere  the  trace  of  men, 
Paths,  homes,  graves,  ruins,  from  the  lowest  glen 

To  where  life  shrinks  from  the  fierce  Alpine  air, 

Gaze  on  them,  till  the  tears  shall  dim  thy  sight, 
But  keep  that  earlier,  wilder  image  bright. 


214  POEMS. 


TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN. 

THOU  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  coloured  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 

O'er  wrandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 

Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 

Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  wait';st  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue— blue— as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


THE    TWENTY-SECOND    OF    DECEMBER.        215 


THE  TWENTY-SECOND  OF  DECEMBER. 

WILD  was  the  day ;  the  wintry  sea 

Moaned  sadly  on  New-England's  strand, 

When  first  the  thoughtful  and  the  free, 
Our  fathers,  trod  the  desert  land. 

They  little  thought  how  pure  a  light, 

With  years,  should  gather  round  that  day ; 

How  love  should  keep  their  memories  bright, 
How  wide  a  realm  their  sons  should  sway. 

Green  are  their  bays  ;  but  greener  still 

Shall  round  their  spreading  fame  be  wreathed, 

And  regions,  now  untrod,  shall  thrill 

With  reverence  when  their  names  are  breathed. 

Till  where  the  sun,  with  softer  fires, 

Looks  on  the  vast  Pacific's  sleep, 
The  children  of  the  pilgrim  sires 

This  hallowed  day  like  us  shall  keep. 


216  POEMS. 


HYMN   OF  THE   CITY. 

NOT  in  the  solitude 
Alone  may  man  commune  with  Heaven,  or  see 

Only  in  savage  wood 
And  sunny  vale,  the  present  Deity ; 

Or  only  hear  his  voice 
Where  the  winds  whisper  and  the  waves  rejoice. 

Even  here  do  I  behold 
Thy  steps,  Almighty ! — here,  amidst  the  crowd, 

Through  the  great  city  rolled, 
With  everlasting  murmur  deep  and  loud — 

Choking  the  ways  that  wind 

'Mongst  the  proud  piles,  the  work  of  human  kind. 

,  .        ,  r,    *    > 

Thy  golden  sunshine  comes 
From  the  round  heaven,  and  on  their  dwellings  lies, 

And  lights  their  inner  homes  ; 
For  them  thou  fill'st  with  air  the  unbounded  skies, 

And  givest  them  the  stores 
Of  ocean,  and  the  harvests  of  its  shores. 


HYMN    OF    THE    CITY.  217 

Thy  Spirit  is  around, 

Quickening  the  restless  mass  that  sweeps  along ; 
And  this  eternal  sound — 

Voices  and  footfalls  of  the  numberless  throng- 
Like  the  resounding  sea, 

Or  like  the  rainy  tempest,  speaks  of  thee. 

And  when  the  hours  of  rest 
Come,  like  a  calm  upon  the  mid-sea  brint. 

Hushing  its  billowy  breast — 
The  quiet  of  that  moment  too  is  thine , 

It  breathes  of  Him  who  keeps 
The  vast  and  helpless  city  while  it  sleeps. 


218  POEMS. 


THE   PRAIRIES. 

r-  ',_~ 

THESE  are  the  gardens  of  the  Desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name— 
The  Prairies.     I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 
Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.     Lo  !  they  stretch 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed, 
And  motionless  for  ever. — Motionless  ? — 
No — they  are  all  unchained  again.     The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye ; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  South ! 
Who  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 
And  pass  the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not — ye  have  played 
Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 
Of  Texas,  and  have  crisped  the  limpid  brooks 


THE    PRAIRIES.  219 

That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 

Into  the  calm  Pacific — have  ye  fanned 

A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this  ? 

Man  hath  no  part  in  all  this  glorious  work : 

The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 

And  smoothed  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown  their  slopes 

With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 

And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.     Fitting  floor 

For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky — 

With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 

Rival  the  constellations  !     The  great  heavens 

Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love, — 

A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 

Than  that  which  bends  above  the  eastern  hills. 

As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my  steed, 
Among  the  high  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his  sides 
The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 
A  sacrilegious  sound.     I  think  of  those 
Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples.     Are  they  here — 
The  dead  of  other  days  ? — and  did  the  dust 
Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 
And  burn  with  passion  ?     Let  the  mighty  mounds 
That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 
In  the  dim  forest  crowded  with  old  oaks, 
Answer.     A  race,  that  long  has  passed  away, 
Built  them  ; — a  disciplined  and  populous  race 


220  POEMS. 


Heaped,  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet  the  Greek 

Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms 

Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 

The  glittering  Parthenon.     These  ample  fields 

Nourished  their  harvests,  here  their  herds  were  fed, 

When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  lowed, 

And  bowed  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 

All  day  this  desert  murmured  with  their  toils, 

Till  twilight  blushed,  and  lovers  walked,  and  wooed 

In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes, 

From  instruments  of  unremembered  form, 

Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.     The  red  man  came — 

The  roaming  hunter  tribes,  warlike  and  fierce. 

And  the  mound-builders  vanished  from  the  earth. 

The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 

Has  settled  where  they  dwelt.     The  prairie-wolf 

Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh- dug  den 

Yawns  by  my  path.     The  gopher  mines  the  ground 

Where  stood  their  swarming  cities.     All  is  gone — 

All — save  the  piles  of  earth  that  hold  their  bones — 

The  platforms  where  they  worshipped  unknown  gods — 

The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the  soil 

To  keep  the  foe  at  bay — till  o'er  the  walls 

The  wild  beleaguerers  broke,  and,  one  by  one, 

The  strongholds  of  the  plain  were  forced,  and  heaped 

With  corpses.     The  brown  vultures  of  the  wood 

Flocked  to  those  vast  uncovered  sepulchres, 


THE    PRAIRIES.  221 

A.nd  sat,  unscared  and  silent,  at  their  feast. 
Haply  some  solitary  fugitive, 
Lurking  in  marsh  and  forest,  till  the  sense 
Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 
Bitterer  than  death,  yielded  himself  to  die. 
Man's  better  nature  triumphed  then.     Kind  words 
Welcomed  and  soothed  him ;  the  rude  conquerors 
Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs ;  he  chose 
A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 
Seemed  to  forget, — yet  ne'er  forgot, — the  wife 
Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones, 
Butchered,  amid  their  shrieks,  with  all  his  race. 

Thus  change  the  forms  of  being.     Thus  arise 
Races  of  living  things,  glorious  in  strength, 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of  God 
Fills  them,  or  is  withdrawn.     The  red  man,  too, 
Has  left  the  blooming  wilds  he  ranged  so  long, 
And,  nearer  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wilder  hunting-ground.     The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  far  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave  back 
The  white  man's  face — among  Missouri's  springs, 
And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregan, 
He  rears  his  little  Venice.     In  these  plains 
The  bison  feeds  no  more.     Twice  twenty  leagues 
Beyond  remotest  smoke  of  hunter's  camp, 

T  2 


222  POEMS. 


Roams  the  majestic  brute,  in  herds  that  shake 
The  earth  with  thundering  steps — yet  here  I  meet 
His  ancient  footprints  stamped  beside  the  pool. 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 
Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 
They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds, 
And  birds,  that  scarce  have  learned  the  fear  of  man, 
Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 
Startlingly  beautiful.     The  graceful  deer 
Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.     The  bee, 
A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man, 
With  whom  he  came  across  the  eastern  deep, 
Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings, 
And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 
Within  the  hollow  oak.     I  listen  long 
To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear 
The  sound  of  that  advancing  multitude 
Which  soon  shall  fill  these  deserts.     From  the  ground 
Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soft  voice 
Of  maidens,  and  the  sweet  and  solemn  hymn 
Of  Sabbath  worshippers.     The  low  of  herds 
Blends  with  the  rustling  of  the  heavy  grain 
Over  the  dark-brown  furrows.     All  at  once 
A  fresher  wind  sweeps  by,  and  breaks  my  dream, 
And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 


SONG    OF    MARION'S    MEN.  223 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

OUR  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold  ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree  ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Wo  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear : 
When  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again  ; 


224  POEMS. 


And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil : 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain  ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 


SOiNG   OF    MARION'S    MEN.  225 

A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs, 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 

For  ever,  from  our  shore. 


226  POEMS. 


THE  AKCTIC  LOVER. 

'* '     -*•'* 
GONE  is  the  long,  long  winter  night ; 

Look,  my  beloved  one  ! 
How  glorious,  through  his  depths  of  light, 

Rolls  the  majestic  sun  ! 
The  willows,  waked  from  winter's  death, 
Give  out  a  fragrance  like  thy  breath — 

The  summer  is  begun  ! 

Ay,  'tis  the  long  bright  summer  day : 

Hark,  to  that  mighty  crash ! 
The  loosened  ice-ridge  breaks  away — 

The  smitten  waters  flash. 
Seaward  the  glittering  mountain  rides, 
While,  down  its  green  translucent  sides, 

The  foamy  torrents  dash. 

See,  love,  my  boat  is  moored  for  thee. 

By  ocean's  weedy  floor — 
The  petrel  does  not  skim  the  sea 

More  swiftly  than  my  oar. 


THE    ARCTIC    LOVER.  227 

We'll  go,  where,  on  the  rocky  isles, 
Her  eggs  the  screaming  sea-fowl  piles 
Beside  the  pebbly  shore. 

Or,  bide  thou  where  the  poppy  blows, 

With  wind-flowers  frail  and  fair, 
While  I,  upon  his  isle  of  snows, 

Seek  and  defy  the  bear. 
Fierce  though  he  be,  and  huge  of  frame, 
This  arm  his  savage  strength  shall  tame, 

And  drag  him  from  his  lair. 

When  crimson  sky  and  flamy  cloud 

Bespeak  the  summer  o'er, 
And  the  dead  valleys  wear  a  shroud 

Of  snowrs  that  melt  no  more, 
I'll  build  of  ice  thy  winter  home, 
With  glistening  walls  and  glassy  dome, 

And  spread  with  skins  the  floor. 

The  white  fox  by  thy  couch  shall  play ; 

And,  from  the  frozen  skies, 
The  meteors  of  a  mimic  day 

Shall  flash  upon  thine  eyes. 
And  I — for  such  thy  vow — meanwhile 
Shall  hear  thy  voice  and  see  thy  smile, 

Till  that  long  midnight  flies. 


228  POEMS. 


THE  JOURNEY   OF   LIFE. 

BENEATH  the  waning  moon  I  walk  at  night, 
And  muse  on  human  life — for  all  around 

Are  dim  uncertain  shapes  that  cheat  the  sight, 
And  pitfalls  lurk  in  shade  along  the  ground, 

And  broken  gleams  of  brightness,  here  and  there, 

Glance  through,  and  leave  unwarmed  the  death-like  air. 

The  trampled  earth  returns  a  sound  of  fear — 
A  hollow  sound,  as  if  I  walked  on  tombs ; 

And  lights,  that  tell  of  cheerful  homes,  appear 
Far  off,  and  die  like  hope  amid  the  glooms. 

A  mournful  wind  across  the  landscape  flies, 

Arid  the  wide  atmosphere  is  full  of  sighs. 

And  I,  with  faltering  footsteps,  journey  on, 
Watching  the  stars  that  roll  the  hours  away, 

Till  the  faint  light  that  guides  me  now  is  gone, 
And,  like  another  life,  the  glorious  day 

Shall  open  o'er  me  from  the  empyreal  height, 

With  warmth,  arid  certainty,  and  boundless  light 


TRANSLATIONS. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


VERSION  OF  A  FRAGMENT  OF  SIMONIDES. 

THE  night  winds  howled — the  billows  dashed 

Against  the  tossing  chest ; 
And  Danae  to  her  broken  heart 

Her  slumbering  infant  pressed. 

"My  little  child" — in  tears  she  said — 

"To  wake  and  weep  is  mine, 
But  thou  canst  sleep — thou  dost  not  know 
Thy  mother's  lot,  and  thine. 

"The  moon  is  up,  the  moonbeams  smile — 

They  tremble  on  the  main  ; 
But  dark,  within  my  floating  cell, 
To  me  they  smile  in  vain. 


232  TRANSLATIONS. 

"Thy  folded  mantle  wraps  thee  warm, 

Thy  clustering  locks  are  dry, 
Thou  dost  not  hear  the  shrieking  gust, 
Nor  breakers  booming  high. 

"As  o'er  thy  sweet  unconscious  face 

A  mournful  watch  I  keep, 
I  think,  didst  thou  but  know  thy  fate, 
How  thou  wouldst  also  weep. 

«<Yet,  dear  one,  sleep,  and  sleep,  ye  winds 

That  vex  the  restless  brine — 
When  shall  these  eyes,  my  babe,  be  sealed 
As  peacefully  as  thine !" 


FROM    THE    SPANISH    OF    VILLEGAS.      233 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  VILLEGAS. 

'Tis  sweet,  in  the  green  Spring, 
To  gaze  upon  the  wakening  fields  around ; 

Birds  in  the  thicket  sing, 
Winds  whisper,  waters  prattle  from  the  ground  ; 

A  thousand  odours  rise, 
Breathed  up  from  blossoms  of  a  thousand  dyes. 

Shadowy,  and  close,  and  cool, 
The  pine  and  poplar  keep  their  quiet  nook; 

For  ever  fresh  and  full, 
Shines,  at  their  feet,  the  thirst-inviting  brook ; 

And  the  soft  herbage  seems 
Spread  for  a  place  of  banquets  and  of  dreams. 

Thou,  who  alone  art  fair, 
And  whom  alone  I  love,  art  far  away. 

Unless  thy  smile  be  there, 
It  makes  me  sad  to  see  the  earth  so  gay; 

I  care  not  if  the  train 
Of  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  zephyrs  go  again. 

v  2 


TRANSLATIONS. 


MARY  MAGDALEN. 

PROM  THB   SFAKISH   OF  BARTOLOME    LEONARDO  DK  ARGENSO1A. 

BLESSED,  yet  sinful  one,  and  broken-hearted ! 
The  crowd  are  pointing  at  the  thing  forlorn, 

In  wonder  and  in  scorn ! 
Thou  weepest  days  of  innocence  departed ; 

Thou  weepest,  and  thy  tears  have  power  to  move 
The  Lord  to  pity  and  love. 

The  greatest  of  thy  follies  is  forgiven, 

Even  for  the  least  of  all  the  tears  that  shine 

On  that  pale  cheek  of  thine. 

Thou  didst  kneel  down,  to  Him  who  came  from  heaven, 
Evil  and  ignorant,  and  thou  shalt  rise 
Holy,  and  pure,  and  wise. 

It  is  not  much  that  to  the  fragrant  blossom 

The  ragged  brier  should  change  ;  the  bitter  fir 

Distil  Arabian  myrrh ! 
Nor  that,  upon  the  wintry  desert's  bosom, 

The  harvest  should  rise  plenteous,  and  the  swain 
Bear  home  the  abundant  grain. 


MARY    MAGDALEN.  235 

But  come  and  see  the  bleak  and  barren  mountains 
Thick  to  their  tops  with  roses :  come  and  see 

Leaves  on  the  dry  dead  tree : 
The  perished  plant,  set  out  by  living  fountains, 
Grows  fruitful,  and  its  beauteous  branches  rise, 
For  ever,  towards  the  skies. 


236  TRANSLATIONS. 


THE   LIFE  OF  THE  BLESSED. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  Of  LUIS  PONCE  DB  LEON. 

REGION  of  life  and  light ! 
Land  of  the  good  whose  earthly  toils  are  o'er! 

Nor  frost  nor  heat  may  blight 

Thy  vernal  beauty,  fertile  shore, 
Yielding  thy  blessed  fruits  for  evermore ! 
"  > 

There,  without  crook  or  sling, 
Walks  the  good  shepherd ;  blossoms  white  and  red 

Round  his  meek  temples  cling ; 

And  to  sweet  pastures  led, 
His  own  loved  flock  beneath  his  eye  is  fed. 

He  guides,  and  near  him  they 
.Follow  delighted,  for  he  makes  them  go 

Where  dwells  eternal  May, 

And  heavenly  roses  blow, 
Deathless,  and  gathered  but  again  to  grow. 

He  leads  them  to  the  height 
Named  of  the  infinite  and  long-sought  Good, 
And  fountains  of  delight ; 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    BLESSED.  237 

And  where  his  feet  have  stood 
Springs  up,  along  the  way,  their  tender  food. 

And  when,  in  the  mid  skies, 
The  climbing  sun  has  reached  his  highest  bound, 

Reposing  as  he  lies, 

With  all  his  flock  around, 
He  witches  the  still  air  with  numerous  sound. 

From  his  sweet  lute  flow  forth 
Immortal  harmonies,  of  power  to  still 

All  passions  born  of  earth, 

And  draw  the  ardent  will 
Its  destiny  of  goodness  to  fulfil. 

Might  but  a  little  part, 
A  wandering  breath  of  that  high  melody, 

Descend  into  my  heart, 

And  change  it  till  it  be 
Transformed  and  swallowed  up,  oh  love !  in  thee. 

Ah !  then  my  soul  should  know, 
Beloved !  where  thou  liest  at  noon  of  day, 

And  from  this  place  of  woe 

Released,  should  take  its  way 
To  mingle  with  thy  flock  and  never  stray. 


238  TRANSLATIONS. 


FATIMA  AND  RADUAN. 


FROM  THE   SPANISH. 


Diamante  falso  y  fingido, 
Engastado  en  pedernal,  &c. 


« FALSE  diamond  set  in  flint!  the  caverns  of  the  mine 
Arewarmerthan  thebreast  that  holds  thatfaithless  heart  of  thine; 
Thou  art  fickle  as  the  sea,  thou  art  wandering  as  the  wind, 
And  the  restless  ever-mounting  flame  is  not  more  hard  to  bind. 
If  the  tears  I  shed  were  tongues,  yet  all  too  few  would  be 
To  tell  of  all  the  treachery  that  thou  hast  shown  to  me. 
Oh  !  I  could  chide  thee  sharply — but  every  maiden  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere  he  goes. 

"Thou  hast  called  me  oft  the  flower  of  all  Grenada's  maids, 
Thou  hast  said  that  by  the  side  of  me  the  first  and  fairest  fades ; 
And  they  thought  thy  heart  was  mine,  and  it  seemed  to  everyone 
That  what  thou  didst  to  win  my  love,  from  love  of  me  was  done. 
Alas !  if  they  but  knew  thee,  as  mine  it  is  to  know, 
They  well  might  see  another  mark  to  which  thine  arrows  go  ; 
But  thou  giv'st  me  little  heed — for  I  speak  to  one  who  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere  he  goes. 


FATIMA    AND    R  A  D  U  A  N. 


"  It  wearies  me,  mine  enemy,  that  I  must  weep  and  bear 
What  fills  thy  heart  with  triumph,  and  fills  my  own  with  care. 
Thou  art  leagued  with  those  that  hate  me,  and  ah!    thou 

know'st  I  feel 

That  cruel  words  as  surely  kill  as  sharpest  blades  of  steel. 
'Twas  the  doubt  that  thou  wert  false  that  wrung  my  heart 

with  pain  ; 

But,  now  I  know  thy  perfidy,  I  shall  be  well  again. 
I  would  proclaim  thee  as  thou  art  —  but  every  maiden  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere  he  goes." 

Thus  Fatima  complained  to  the  valiant  Raduan, 

Where  underneath  the  myrtles  Alhambra's  fountains  ran  : 

The  Moor  was  inly  moved,  and  blameless  as  he  was, 

He  took  her  white  hand  in  his  own,  and  pleaded  thus  his  cause: 

«  Oh,  lady,  dry  those  star-like  eyes  —  their  dimness  does  me 

wrong  ; 

If  my  heart  be  made  of  flint,  at  least  'twill  keep  thy  image  long; 
Thou  hast  uttered  cruel  words  —  but  I  grieve  the  less  for  those, 
Since  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere  he  goes  " 


240  TRANSLATIONS. 


LOVE  AND  FOLLY. 


PROM   LA   FONTAINE. 


LOVE'S  worshippers  alone  can  know 

The  thousand  mysteries  that  are  his ; 
His  blazing  torch,  his  twanging  bow, 

His  blooming  age  are  mysteries. 
A  charming  science — but  the  day 

Were  all  too  short  to  con  it  o'er ; 
So  take  of  me  this  little  lay, 

A  sample  of  its  boundless  lore. 

As  once,  beneath  the  fragrant  shade 

Of  myrtles  breathing  heaven's  own  air, 
The  children,  Love  and  Folly,  played — 

A  quarrel  rose  betwixt  the  pair. 
Love  said  the  gods  should  do  him  right— 

But  Folly  vowed  to  do  it  then, 
And  struck  him,  o'er  the  orbs  of  sight, 

So  hard  he  never  saw  again. 

His  lovely  mother's  grief  was  deep, 
She  called  for  vengeance  on  the  deed ; 


LOVE    AND    FOLLY.  34 

A  beauty  does  not  vainly  weep, 

Nor  coldly  does  a  mother  plead. 
A  shade  came  o'er  the  eternal  bliss 

That  fills  the  dwellers  of  the  skies ; 
Even  stony-hearted  Nemesis, 

And  Rhadamanthus,  wiped  their  eyes. 

«  Behold,"  she  said,  "  this  lovely  boy/' 

While  streamed  afresh  her  graceful  tears, 
« Immortal,  yet  shut  out  from  joy 

And  sunshine,  all  his  future  years. 
The  child  can  never  take,  you  see, 

A  single  step  without  a  staff— 
The  harshest  punishment  would  be 
Too  lenient  for  the  crime  by  half." 

All  said  that  Love  had  suffered  wrong, 

And  well  that  wrong  should  be  repaid ; 
Then  weighed  the  public  interest  long, 

And  long  the  party's  interest  weighed. 
And  thus  decreed  the  court  above — 

«  Since  Love  is  blind  from  Folly's  blow, 
Let  Folly  be  the  guide  of  Love, 

Where'er  the  boy  may  choose  to  go." 


242  TRANSLATIONS. 


THE   SIESTA, 


FROM  THE   SPANISH. 


Vientecico  murmurador, 
Que  lo  gozas  y  andas  todo,  &c. 

AIRS,  that  wander  arid  murmur  round, 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow ! 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Lighten  and  lengthen  her  noonday  rest, 

Till  the  heat  of  the  noonday  sun  is  o'er. 
Sweet  be  her  slumbers !  though  in  my  breast 

The  pain  she  has  waked  may  slumber  no  more. 
Breathing  soft  from  the  blue  profound, 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Airs !  that  over  the  bending  boughs, 
And  under  the  shade  of  pendent  leaves, 


THE    SIESTA.  243 


Murmur  soft,  like  my  timid  vows 

Or  the  secret  sighs  my  bosom  heaves, — 

Gently  sweeping  the  grassy  ground, 
Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 

Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 


244  TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  ALCAYDE  OF  MOLINA. 


FIIOM  THE   SPANISH. 


To  the  town  of  Atienza,  Molina's  brave  Alcayde, 
The  courteous  and  the  valorous,  led  forth  his  bold  brigade. 
The  Moor  came  back  in  triumph,  he  came  without  a  wound, 
With  many  a  Christian  standard,  and  Christian  captive  bound. 
He  passed  the  city  portals,  with  swelling  heart  and  vain, 
And  towards  his  lady's  dwelling  he  rode  with  slackened  rein  ; 
Two  circuits  on  his  charger  he  took,  and  at  the  third, 
From  the  door  of  her  balcony  Zelinda's  voice  was  heard. 
"  Now  if  thou  wert  not  shameless,"  said  the  lady  to  the  Moor, 
"Thou  wouldst  neither  pass  my  dwelling,  nor  stop  before  my 

door. 

Alas  for  poor  Zelinda,  and  for  her  wayward  mood, 
That  one  in  love  with  peace  should  have  loved  a  man  of  blood ' 
Since  not  that  thou  wert  noble  I  chose  thee  for  my  knight, 
But  that  thy  sword  was  dreaded  in  tournay  and  in  fight. 
Ah,  thoughtless  and  unhappy!  that  I  should  fail  to  see 
How  ill  the  stubborn  flint  and  the  yielding  wax  agree. 
Boast  not  thy  love  for  me,  while  the  shrieking  of  the  fife 
Can  change  thy  mood  of  mildness  to  fury  and  to  strife. 


THE   ALCAYDE    OF    MOLINA.  246 

Say  not  my  voice  is  magic — thy  pleasure  is  to  hear 
The  bursting  of  the  carbine,  and  shivering  of  the  spear. 
Well,  follow  thou  thy  choice — to  the  battle-field  away, 
To  thy  triumphs  and  thy  trophies,  since  I  am  less  than  they. 
Thrust  thy  arm  into  thy  buckler,  gird  on  thy  crooked  brand, 
And  call  upon  thy  trusty  squire  to  bring  thy  spears  in  hand. 
Lead  forth  thy  band  to  skirmish,  by  mountain  and  by  mead, 
On  thy  dappled  Moorish  barb,  or  thy  fleeter  border  steed. 
Go,  waste  the  Christian  hamlets,  and  sweep  away  their  flocks, 
From  Almazan's  broad  meadows  to  Siguenza's  rocks. 
Leave  Zelinda  altogether,  whom  thou  leavest  oft  and  long, 
And  in  the  life  thou  lovest  forget^vhom  thou  dost  wrong. 
These  eyes  shall  not  recall  thee,  though  they  meet  no  more  thine 


own 


Though  they  weep  that  thou  art  absent,  and  that  I  am  all  alone." 
She  ceased,  and  turning  from  him  her  flushed  and  angry  cheek, 
Shut  the  door  of  her  balcony  before  the  Moor  couM  speak. 


246  TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  DEATH   OF  ALIATAR. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH. 


'Tis  not  with  gilded  sabres 

That  gleam  in  baldricks  blue, 
Nor  nodding  plumes  in  caps  of  Fez, 

Of  gay  and  gaujy  hue — 
But,  habited  in  mourning  weeds, 

Come  marching  from  afar, 
By  four  and  four,  the  valiant  men 

Who  fought  with  Aliatar. 
All  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

The  banner  of  the  Phenix, 

The  flag  that  loved  the  sky, 
That  scarce  the  wind  dared  wanton  with. 

It  flew  so  proud  and  high — 
Now  leaves  its  place  in  battle-field, 

And  sweeps  the  ground  in  grief, 


THE    DEATH    OF    ALIATAR.  347 

The  bearer  drags  its  glorious  folds 

Behind  the  fallen  chief, 
As  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

Brave  Aliatar  led  forward 

A  hundred  Moors  to  go 
To  where  his  brother  held  Motril 

Against  the  leaguering  foe. 
On  horseback  went  the  gallant  Moor, 

That  gallant  band  to  lead  ; 
And  now  his  bier  is  at  the  gate, 

From  whence  he  pricked  his  steed. 
While  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

The  knights  of  the  Grand  Master 

In  crowded  ambush  lay ; 
They  rushed  upon  him  where  the  reeds 

Were  thick  beside  the  way ; 
They  smote  the  valiant  Aliatar, 

They  smote  the  warrior  dead, 


248  TRANSLATIONS. 


And  broken,  but  not  beaten,  were 

The  gallant  ranks  he  led. 
Now  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpec, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

Oh !  what  was  Zayda's  sorrow, 

How  passionate  her  cries  ! 
Her  lover's  wounds  streamed  not  more  free 

Than  that  poor  maiden's  eyes. 
Say,  Love — for  didst  thou  see  her  tears  : 

Oh,  no !  he  drew  more  tight 
The  blinding  fillet  o'er  his  lids 

To  spare  his  eyes  the  sight. 
While  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

'         A    . 

Nor  Zayda  weeps  him  only, 

But  all  that  dwell  between 
The  great  Alhambra's  palace  walls 

And  springs  of  Albaicin. 
The  ladies  weep  the  flower  of  knights, 

The  brave  the  bravest  here  ; 


THE    DEATH    OF    ALIATAR.  249 

The  people  weep  a  champion, 

The  Alcaydes  a  noble  peer. 
While  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 


250  TRANSLATIONS. 


LOVE   IN   THE   AGE   OF   CHIVALRY. 

FROM  PEYRB  VIDAL,  THE  TROUBADOUR, 

THE  earth  was  sown  with  early  flowers. 

The  heavens  were  blue  and  bright — 
I  met  a  youthful  cavalier 

As  lovely  as  the  light. 
I  knew  him  not — but  in  rny  heart 

His  graceful  image  lies, 
And  well  I  marked  his  open  brow, 

His  sweet  and  tender  eyes, 
His  ruddy  lips  that  ever  smiled, 

His  glittering  teeth  betwixt, 
And  flowing  robe  embroidered  o'er, 

With  leaves  and  blossoms  mixed. 
He  wore  a  chaplet  of  the  rose  ; 

His  palfrey,  white  and  sleek, 
Was  marked  with  many  an  ebon  spot, 

And  many  a  purple  streak ; 
Of  jasper  was  his  saddle-bow, 

His  housings  sapphire  stone, 
And  brightly  in  his  stirrup  glanced 

The  purple  calcedon. 


LOVE    IN    THE    AGE    OF    CHIVALRY.        351 

Fast  rode  the  gallant  cavalier, 
As  youthful  horsemen  ride  ; 
«  Peyre  Vidal !  know  that  I  am  Love," 

The  blooming  stranger  cried ; 
"And  this  is  Mercy  by  my  side, 

A  dame  of  high  degree  ; 
This  maid  is  Chastity,"  he  said, 
"This  squire  is  Loyalty." 


252  TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  LOVE   OF   GOD. 

PEOM  THE  PROVENJJAL  OF  BERNAHI    RABCAf 

ALL  things  that  are  on  earth  shall  wholly  pass  away, 
Except  the  love  of  God,  which  shall  live  and  last  for  aye. 
The  forms  of  men  shall  be  as  they  had  never  been ; 
The  blasted  groves  shall  lose  their  fresh  and  tender  green ; 
The  birds  of  the  thicket  shall  end  their  pleasant  song, 
And  the  nightingale  shall  cease  to  chant  the  evening  long. 
The  kine  of  the  pasture  shall  feel  the  dart  that  kills, 
And  all  the  fair  white  flocks  shall  perish  from  the  hills. 
The  goat  and  antlered  stag,  the  wolf  and  the  fox, 
The  wild  boar  of  the  wood,  and  the  chamois  of  the  rocks, 
And  the  strong  and  fearless  bear,  in  the  trodden  dust  shall  lie; 
And  the  dolphin  of  the  sea,  and  the  mighty  whale,  shall  die. 
And  realms  shall  be  dissolved,  and  empires  be  no  more, 
And  they  shall  bow  to  death,  who  ruled  from  shore  to  shore ; 
And  the  great  globe  itself,  (so  the  holy  writings  tell,) 
With  the  rolling  firmament,  where  the  starry  armies  dwell, 
Shall  melt  with  fervent  heat — they  shall  all  pass  away, 
Except  the  love  of  God,  which  shall  live  and  last  for  aye. 


FROM    THE    SPANISH.  263 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  PEDRO  DE  CASTRO  Y 

ANAYA. 


STAY,  rivulet,  nor  haste  to  leave 

The  lovely  vale  that  lies  around  thee. 

Why  wouldst  thou  be  a  sea  at  eve, 

When  but  a  fount  the  morning  found  thee  ? 

Born  when  the  skies  began  to  glow, 

Humblest  of  all  the  rock's  cold  daughters, 

No  blossom  bowed  its  stalk  to  show 
Where  stole  thy  still  and  scanty  waters. 

Now  on  thy  stream  the  noonbeams  look, 
Usurping,  as  thou  downward  driftest, 

Its  crystal  from  the  clearest  brook, 
Its  rushing  current  from  the  swiftest. 

Ah !  what  wild  haste ! — and  all  to  be 

A  river  and  expire  in  ocean. 
Each  fountain's  tribute  hurries  thee 

To  that  vast  grave  with  quicker  motion. 


254  TRANSLATIONS. 

Far  better  'twere  to  linger  still 

In  this  green  vale,  these  flowers  to  cherish, 
And  die  in  peace,  an  aged  rill, 

Than  thus,  a  youthful  Danube,  perish. 


S  0  N  N  K  T.  255 


SONNET. 


FROM   TUB   FOKTU00BSB   OF 


IT  is  a  fearful  night ;  a  feeble  glare 

Streams  from  the  sick  moon  in  the  overclouded  sky ; 

The  ridgy  billows,  with  a  mighty  cry, 
Rush  on  the  foamy  beaches  wild  and  bare ; 
No  bark  the  madness  of  the  waves  will  dare ; 

The  sailors  sleep  ;  the  winds  are  loud  and  high  ; 

Ah,  peerless  Laura!  for -whose  love  I  die, 
Who  gazes  on  thy  smiles  whilt-  I  di-spair? 

As  thus,  in  bitterness  of  heart,  I  cried, 
I  turned,  and  saw  my  Laura,  kind  and  bright, 

A  messenger  of  gladness,  at  my  side  : 
To  my  poor  back  she  sprang  with  footstep  light, 

And  as  we  furrowed  Tago's  heaving  tide, 
I  never  saw  so  beautiful  a  night. 


256  TRANSLATIONS. 


SONG. 

FROM  THE   SPANISH   OP   IGLES1A3 

ALEXIS  calls  me  cruel ; 

The  rifted  crags  that  hold 
The  gathered  ice  of  winter, 

He  says,  are  not  more  cold. 

When  even  the  very  blossoms 
Around  the  fountain's  brim, 

And  forest  walks,  can  witness 
The  love  I  bear  to  him. 

I  would  that  I  could  utter 
My  feelings  without  shame ; 

And  tell  him  how  I  love  him, 
Nor  wrong  my  virgin  fame. 

Alas !  to  seize  the  moment 
When  heart  inclines  to  heart, 

And  press  a  suit  with  passion, 
Is  not  a  woman's  part. 


SONG.  257 


If  man  comes  not  to  gather 
The  roses  where  they  stand, 

They  fade  among  their  foliage  ; 
They  cannot  seek  his  hand. 


J  9 


258  TRANSLATIONS. 


THE   COUNT  OF   GREIERS. 

FROM  TUB   GERMAN   OF  UHLAND. 

AT  morn  the  Count  of  Greiers  before  his  castle  stands ; 
He  sees  afar  the  glory  that  lights  the  mountain  lands ; 
The  horned  crags  are  shining,  and  in  the  shade  between 
A  pleasant  Alpine  valley  lies  beautifully  green. 

"Oh,  greenest  of  the  valleys,  how  shall  I  come  to  thee! 
Thy  herdsmen  and  thy  maidens,  how  happy  must  they  be! 
I  have  gazed  upon  thee  coldly,  all  lovely  as  thou  art, 
But  the  wish  to  walk  thy  pastures  now  stirs  my  inmost  heart." 

He  hears  a  sound  of  timbrels,  and  suddenly  appear 
A  troop  of  ruddy  damsels  and  herdsmen  drawing  near ; 
They  reach  the  castle  greensward,  and  gayly  dance  across; 
The  white  sleeves  flit  and  glimmer,  the  wreaths  and  ribands  toss> 

The  youngest  of  the  maidens,  slim  as  a  spray  of  spring, 
She  takes  the  young  count's  fingers,  and  draws  him  to  the  ring, 
They  fling  upon  his  forehead  a  crown  of  mountain  flowers, 
"And  ho ,  young  Count  of  Greiers!  this  morning  thou  art  ours!" 


THE    COUNT    OF    GREIERS.  259 

Then  hand  in  hand  departing,  with  dance  and  roundelay, 
Through  hamlet  after  hamlet,  they  lead  the  Count  away. 
They  dance  through  wood  and  meadow,  they  dance  across 

the  linn, 
Till  the  mighty  Alpine  summits  have  shut  the  music  in. 

The  second  morn  is  risen,  and  now  the  third  is  come ; 
Where  stays  the  Count  of  Greiers  ?  has  he  forgot  his  home  ? 
Again  the  evening  closes,  in  thick  and  sultry  air ; 
There's  thunder  on  the  mountains,  the  storm  is  gathering 
there. 

The  cloud  has  shed  its  waters,  the  brook  comes  swollen  down  ; 
You  see  it  by  the  lightning — a  river  wide  and  brown. 
Around  a  struggling  swimmer  the  eddies  dash  and  roar, 
Till,  seizing  on  a  willow,  he  leaps  upon  the  shore. 

«  Here  am  I  cast  by  tempests  far  from  your  mountain  dell. 
Amid  our  evening  dances  the  bursting  deluge  fell. 
Ye  all,  in  cots  and  caverns,  have  'scaped  the  water-spout, 
While  me  alone  the  tempest  o'erwhelmed  and  hurried  out. 

"Farewell, with  thy  glad  dwellers, green  vale  among  the  rocks! 
Farewell  the  swift  sweet  moments,  in  which  I  watched  thy 

flocks ! 

Why  rocked  they  not  my  cradle  in  that  delicious  spot, 
That  garden  of  the  happy,  where  Heaven  endures  me  not  ? 


260  TRANSLATIONS. 

«  Rose  of  the  Alpine  valley !  I  feel,  in  every  vein, 
Thy  soft  touch  on  my  fingers  ;  oh,  press  them  not  again ! 
Bewitch  me  not,  ye  garlands,  to  tread  that  upward  track, 
And  thou,  my  cheerless  mansion,  receive  thy  master  back.' 


THE    SERENADE.  261 


THE   SERENADE. 


FROM   TUB    SPANISH. 


IF  slumber,  sweet  Lisena ! 

Have  stolen  o'er  thine  eyes, 
As  night  steals  o'er  the  glory 

Of  spring's  transparent  skies  ; 

Wake,  in  thy  scorn  and  beauty, 
And  listen  to  the  strain 

That  murmurs  my  devotion, 
That  mourns  for  thy  disdain. 

Here  by  thy  door  at  midnight, 
I  pass  the  dreary  hour, 

With  plaintive  sounds  profaning 
The  silence  of  thy  bower; 

A  tale  of  sorrow  cherished 

Too  fondly  to  depart, 
Of  wrong  from  love  the  flatterer, 

And  my  own  wayward  heart. 


262  TRANSLATIONS. 

Twice,  o'er  this  vale,  the  seasons 
Have  brought  and  borne  away 

The  January  tempest, 
The  genial  wind  of  May; 

Yet  still  my  plaint  is  uttered, 
My  tears  and  sighs  are  given 

To  earth's  unconscious  waters, 
And  wandering  winds  of  heaven. 

V    ,     :      -•  •  'VT-^ 

I  saw  from  this  fair  region, 
The  smile  of  summer  pass, 

And  myriad  frost-stars  glitter 
Among  the  russet  grass. 

While  winter  seized  the  streamlets 
That  fled  along  the  ground, 

And  fast  in  chains  of  crystal 
The  truant  murmurers  bound,. 

I  saw  that  to  the  forest 

The  nightingales  had  flown, 

And  every  sweet-voiced  fountain 
Had  hushed  its  silver  tone. 

The  maniac  winds,  divorcing 
The  turtle  from  his  mate, 


THE    SERENADE.  203 

Raved  through  the  leafy  beeches, 
And  left  them  desolate. 

Now  May,  with  life  and  music, 

The  blooming  valley  fills, 
And  rears  her  flowery  arches 

For  all  the  little  rills. 

The  minstrel  bird  of  evening 

Comes  back  on  joyous  wings, 
And,  like  the  harp's  soft  murmur, 

Is  heard  the  gush  of  springs. 

And  deep  within  the  forest 

Are  wedded  turtles  seen, 
Their  nuptial  chambers  seeking, 

Their  chambers  close  and  green. 

The  rugged  trees  are  mingling 

Their  flowery  sprays  in  love  , 
The  ivy  climbs  the  laurel, 

To  clasp  the  boughs  above. 

They  change — but  thou,  Lisena, 

Art  cold  while  I  complain  : 
Why  to  thy  lover  only 

Should  spring  return  in  vain? 


264  TRANSLATIONS. 


A  NOKTHEKN  LEGEND. 

FROM  THB  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

THERE  sits  a  lovely  maiden, 
The  ocean  murmuring  nigh ; 

She  throws  the  hook,  and  watches ; 
The  fishes  pass  it  by. 

A  ring,  with  a  red  jewel, 
Is  sparkling  on  her  hand ; 

Upon  the  hook  she  binds  it, 
And  flings  it  from  the  land. 

Uprises  from  the  water 

A  hand  like  ivory  fair. 
What  gleams  upon  its  finger  ? 

The  golden  ring  is  there. 

Uprises  from  the  bottom 

A  young  and  handsome  knight ; 
In  golden  scales  he  rises, 

That  glitter  in  the  light. 


A    NORTHERN    LEGEND.  265 

The  maid  is  pale  with  terror — 

"Nay,  Knight  of  Ocean,  nay, 
It  was  not  thee  I  wanted  ; 

Let  go  the  ring,  I  pray." 

"  Ah,  maiden,  not  to  fishes 

The  bait  of  gold  is  thrown  ; 
The  ring  shall  never  leave  me, 
And  thou  must  be  my  own." 


LATER  POEMS. 


LATER   POEMS. 


TO  THE   APENNINES. 

YOUR  peaks  are  beautiful,  ye  Apennines ! 

In  the  soft  light  of  these  serenest  skies ; 
From  the  broad  highland  region,  black  with  pines, 

Fair  as  the  hills  of  Paradise  they  rise, 
Bathed  in  the  tint  Peruvian  slaves  behold 
In  rosy  flushes  on  the  virgin  gold. 

There,  rooted  to  the  aerial  shelves  that  wear 
The  glory  of  a  brighter  world,  might  spring 

Sweet  flowers  of  heaven  to  scent  the  unbreathed  air, 
And  heaven's  fleet  messengers  might  rest  the  wing, 

To  view  the  fair  earth  in  its  summer  sleep, 

Silent,  and  cradled  by  the  glimmering  deep. 


z  2 


270  LATER    POEMS. 


Below  you  lie  men's  sepulchres,  the  old 
Etrurian  tombs,  the  graves  of  yesterday ; 

The  herd's  white  bones  lie  mixed  with  human  mould  — 
Yet  up  the  radiant  steeps  that  I  survey 

Death  never  climbed,  nor  life's  soft  breath,  with  pain, 

Was  yielded  to  the  elements  again. 

Ages  of  war  have  filled  these  plains  with  fear  ; 

How  oft  the  hind  has  started  at  the  clash 
Of  spears,  and  yell  of  meeting  armies  here, 

Or  seen  the  lightning  of  the  battle  flash 
From  clouds,  that  rising  with  the  thunder's  sound, 
Hung  like  an  earth-born  tempest  o'er  the  ground ! 

Ah  me  !  what  armed  nations — Asian  horde, 
And  Libyan  host — the  Scythian  and  the  Gaul, 

Have  swept  your  base  and  through  your  passes  poured, 
Like  ocean-tides  uprising  at  the  call 

Of  tyrant  winds — against  your  rocky  side 

The  bloody  billows  dashed,  and  howled,  and  died. 

How  crashed  the  towers  before  beleaguering  foes, 
Sacked  cities  smoked  and  realms  were  rent  in  twain ; 

And  commonwealths  against  their  rivals  rose, 

Trode  out  their  lives  and  earned  the  curse  of  Cain! 

While  in  the  noiseless  air  and  light  that  flowed 

Round  your  far  brows,  eternal  Peace  abode. 


TO    THE    A  Pi;  \  NINES.  271 


Here  pealed  the  impious  hymn,  and  altar  flames 
Rose  to  false  gods,  a  dream-begotten  throng, 

Jove,  Bacchus,  Pan,  and  earlier,  fouler  names ; 
While,  as  the  unheeding  ages  passed  along, 

Ye,  from  your  station  in  the  middle  skies, 

Proclaimed  the  essential  Goodness,  strong  and  wise. 

In  you  the  heart  that  sighs  for  freedom  seeks 
Her  image  ;  there  the  winds  no  barrier  know, 

Clouds  come  and  rest  and  leave  your  fairy  peaks ; 
While  even  the  immaterial  Mind,  below, 

And  Thought,  her  winged  offspring,  chained  by  power, 

Pine  silently  for  the  redeeming  hour. 


272  LATER    POEMS. 


EARTH. 

A  MIDNIGHT  black  with  clouds  is  in  the  sky ; 
I  seem  to  feel,  upon  my  limbs,  the  weight     fi'-\ 
Of  its  vast  brooding  shadow.     All  in  vain 
Turns  the  tired  eye  in  search  of  form ;  no  star 
Pierces  the  pitchy  veil ;  no  ruddy  blaze, 
From  dwellings  lighted  by  the  cheerful  hearth, 
Tinges  the  flowering  summits  of  the  grass. 
No  sound  of  life  is  heard,  no  village  hum, 
Nor  measured  tramp  of  footstep  in  the  path, 
Nor  rush  of  wing,  while,  on  the  breast  of  Earth, 
I  lie  and  listen  to  her  mighty  voice : 
A  voice  of  many  tones — sent  up  from  streams 
That  wander  through  the  gloom,  from  woods  unseen, 
Swayed  by  the  sweeping  of  the  tides  of  air, 
From  rocky  chasms  where  darkness  dwells  all  day, 
And  hollows  of  the  great  invisible  hills, 
And  sands  that  edge  the  ocean,  stretching  far 
Into  the  night — a  melancholy  sound ! 

0  Earth !  dost  thou  too  sorrow  for  the  past 
Like  man  thy  offspring  ?     Do  I  hear  thee  mourn 


EARTH.  273 


Thy  childhood's  unreturning  hours,  thy  springs 
Gone  with  their  genial  airs  and  melodies, 
The  gentle  generations  of  thy  flowers, 
And  thy  majestic  groves  of  olden  time, 

Perished  with  all  their  dwellers  ?     Dost  thou  wail 

• 

For  that  fair  age  of  which  the  poets  tell, 

Ere  the  rude  winds  grew  keen  with  frost,  or  fire 

Fell  with  the  rains,  or  spouted  from  the  hills, 

To  blast  thy  greenness,  while  the  virgin  night 

Was  guiltless  and  salubrious  as  the  day  ? 

Or  haply  dost  thou  grieve  for  those  that  die — 

For  living  things  that  trod  thy  paths  awhile, 

The  love  of  thee  and  heaven — and  now  they  sleep 

Mixed  with  the  shapeless  dust  on  whrch  thy  herds 

Trample  and  graze  ?     I  too  must  grieve  with  thee, 

O'er  loved  ones  lost.     Their  gravejs  are  far  away 

Upon  thy  mountains ;  yet,  while  I  recline 

Alone,  in  darkness,  on  thy  naked  soil, 

The  mighty  nourisher  and  burial-place 

Of  man,  I  feel  that  I  embrace  their  dust. 

Ha !  how  the  murmur  deepens !    I  perceive 
And  tremble  at  its  dreadful  import.     Earth 
Uplifts  a  general  cry  for  guilt  and  wrong, 
And  heaven  is  listening.     The  forgotten  graves 
Of  the  heart-broken  utter  forth  their  plaint. 
The  dust  of  her  who  loved  and  was  betrayed, 


274  LATER    POEMS. 

And  him  who  died  neglected  in  his  age ; 

The  sepulchres  of  those  who  for  mankind 

Laboured,  and  earned  the  recompense  of  scorn ; 

Ashes  of  martyrs  for  the  truth,  and  bones 

Of  those  who,  in  the  strife  for  liberty, 

Were  beaten  down,  their  corses  given  to  dogs 

Their  names  to  infamy,  all  find  a  voice. 

The  nook  in  which  the  captive,  overtoiled, 

Lay  down  to  rest  at  last,  and  that  which  holds 

Childhood's  sweet  blossoms,  crushed  by  cruel  hands, 

Send  up  a  plaintive  sound.     From  battle-fields, 

Where  heroes  madly  drave  and  dashed  their  hosts 

Against  each  other,  rises  up  a  noise, 

As  if  the  armed  multitudes  of  dead 

Stirred  in  their  heavy  slumber.     Mournful  tones 

Come  from  the  gjreen  abysses  of  the  sea — 

A  story  of  the  crimes  the  guilty  sought 

To  hide  beneath  its  waves.     The  glens,  the  groves, 

Paths  in  the  thicket,  pools  of  running  brook, 

And  banks  and  depths  of  lake,  and  streets  and  lanes 

Of  cities,  now  that  living  sounds  are  hushed, 

Murmur  of  guilty  force  and  treachery. 

Here,  where  I  rest,  the  vales  of  Italy 
Are  round  me,  populous  from  early  time, 
And  field  of  the  tremendous  warfare  waged 
'Twixt  good  and  evil.     Who,  alas,  shall  dare 


EARTH.  275 


Interpret  to  man's  ear  the  mingled  voice 

That  comes  from  her  old  dungeons  yawning  now 

To  the  black  air,  her  amphitheatres, 

Where  the  dew  gathers  on  the  mouldering  stones, 

And  fanes  of  banished  gods,  and  open  tombs, 

And  roofless  palaces,  and  streets  and  hearths 

Of  cities  dug  from  their  volcanic  graves  ? 

I  hear  a  sound  of  many  languages, 

The  utterance  of  nations  now  no  more, 

Driven  out  by  mightier,  as  the  days  of  heaven 

Chase  one  another  from  the  sky.     The  blood 

Of  freemen  shed  by  freemen,  till  strange  lords 

Came  in  the  hour  of  weakness,  and  made  fast 

The  yoke  that  yet  is  worn,  cries  out  to  Heaven. 


What  then  shall  cleanse  thy  bosom,  gentle  Earth; 
From  all  its  painful  memories  of  guilt? 
The  whelming  flood,  or  the  renewing  fire, 
Or  the  slow  change  of  time  ?  that  so,  at  last, 
The  horrid  tale  of  perjury  and  strife, 
Murder  and  spoil,  which  men  call  history, 
May  seem  a  fable,  like  the  inventions  told 
By  poets  of  the  gods  of  Greece.     0  thou, 
Who  sittest  far  beyond  the  Atlantic  deep, 
Among  the  sources  of  thy  glorious  streams, 
My  native  Land  of  Groves '    a  newer  page 


276       •  LATER    POEMS. 


In  the  great  record  of  the  world  is  thine  ; 
Shall  it  be  fairer?     Fear,  and  friendly  hope, 
And  envy,  watch  the  issue,  while  the  lines, 
By  which  thou  shalt  be  judged,  are  written  down. 


THE    KNIGHT'S    EPITAPH.  377 


THE   KNIGHT'S  EPITAPH. 

THIS  is  the  church  which  Pisa,  great  and  free, 
Reared  to  St.  Catharine.    How  the  time-stained  walls,' 
That  earthquakes  shook  not  from  their  poise,  appear 
To  shiveisin  the  deep  and  voluble  tones 
Rolled  from  the  organ !     Underneath  my  feet 
There  lies  the  lid  of  a  sepulchral  vault. 
The  image  of  an  armed  knight  is  graven 
Upon  it,  clad  in  perfect  panoply — 
Cuishes,  and  greaves,  and  cuirass,  with  barred  helm, 
Gauntleted  hand,  and  sword,  and  blazoned  shield. 
Around,  in  Gothic  characters,  worn  dim 
By  feet  of  worshippers,  are  traced  his  name, 
And  birth,  and  death,  and  words  of  eulogy. 
Why  should  I  pore  upon  them  ?     This  old  tomb, 
This  effigy,  the  strange  disused  form 
Of  this  inscription,  eloquently  show 
His  history.     Let  me  clothe  in  fitting  words 
The  thoughts  they  breathe,  and  frame  his  epitaph. 

"He  whose  forgotten  dust  for  centuries 
Has  lain  beneath  this  stone,  was  one  in  whom 


2  A 


278  LATER    POEMS. 

Adventure,  and  endurance,  and  emprise 

Exalted  the  mind's  faculties  and  strung 

The  body's  sinews.     Brave  he  was  in  fight, 

Courteous  in  banquet,  scornful  of  repose, 

And  bountiful,  and  cruel,  and  devout, 

And  quick  to  draw  the  sword  in  private  feud. 

He  pushed  his  quarrels  to  the  death,  yet  prayed 

The  saints  as  fervently  on  bended  knees 

As  ever  shaven  cenobite.     He  loved 

As  fiercely  as  he  fought.     He  would  have  borne 

The  maid  that  pleased  him  from  her  bower  by  night, 

To  his  hill-castle,  as  the  eagle  bears 

His  victim  from  the  fold,  and  rolled  the  rocks 

On  his  pursuers.     He  aspired  to  see 

His  native  Pisa  queen  and  arbitress 

Of  cities  :  earnestly  for  her  he  raised 

His  voice  in  council,  and  affronted  death 

In  battle-field,  and  climbed  the  galley's  deck, 

And  brought  the  captured  flag  of  Genoa  back, 

Or  piled  upon  the  Arno's  crowded  quay 

The  glittering  spoils  of  the  tamed  Saracen. 

He  was  not  born  to  brook  the  stranger's  yoke, 

But  would  have  joined  the  exiles  that  withdrew 

For  ever,  when  the  Florentine  broke  in 

The  gates  of  Pisa,  and  bore  off*  the  bolts 

For  trophies — but  he  died  before  that  day. 


THE    KNIGHT'S    EPITAPH.  279 


"He  lived,  the  impersonation  of  an  age 
That  never  shall  return.     His  soul  of  fire 
Was  kindled  by  the  breath  of  the  rude  time 
He  lived  in.     Now  a  gentler  race  succeeds, 
Shuddering  at  blood  ;  the  effeminate  cavalier, 
Turning  his  eyes  from  the  reproachful  past, 
And  from  the  hopeless  future,  gives  to  ease, 
And  love,  and  music,  his  inglorious  life." 


280  LATER    POEMS. 


THE   HUNTER  OF   THE   PRAIRIES. 


AY,  this  is  freedom ! — these  pure  skies 

Were  never  stained  with  village  smoke : 
The  fragrant  wind,  that  through  them  flies, 

Is  breathed  from  wastes  by  plough  unbroke, 
Here,  with  my  rifle  and  my  steed, 

And  her  who  left  the  world  for  me, 
I  plant  me,  where  the  red  deer  feed 

In  the  green  desert — and  am  free. 

For  here  the  fair  savannas  know 

No  barriers  in  the  bloomy  grass ; 
Wherever  breeze  of  heaven  may  blow, 

Or  beam  of  heaven  may  glance,  I  pass. 
In  pastures,  measureless  as  air, 

The  bison  is  my  noble  game  ; 
The  bounding  elk,  whose  antlers  tear 

The  branches,  falls  before  my  aim. 

Mine  are  the  river-fowl  that  scream 
From  the  long  stripe  of  waving  sedge ; 


THE    HUNTER    OF    THE    PRAIRIES.        281 

The  bear  that  marks  my  weapon's  gleam, 

Hides  vainly  in  the  forest's  edge ; 
In  vain  the  she-wolf  stands  at  bay; 

The  brinded  catamount,  that  lies 
High  in  the  boughs  to  watch  his  prey, 

Even  in  the  act  of  springing,  dies. 

With  what  free  growth  the  elm  and  plane 

Fling  their  huge  arms  across  my  way, 
Gray,  old,  and  cumbered  with  a  train 

Of  vines,  as  huge,  and  old,  and  gray! 
Free  stray  the  lucid  streams,  and  find 

No  taint  in  these  fresh  lawns  and  shades; 
Free  spring  the  flowers  that  scent  the  wind 

Where  never  scythe  has  swept  the  glades. 

Alone  the  Fire,  when  frost- winds  sere 

The  heavy  herbage  of  the  ground, 
Gathers  his  annual  harvest  here, 

With  roaring  like  the  battle's  sound, 
And  hurrying  flames  that  sweep  the  plain, 

And  smoke-streams  gushing  up  the  sky : 
I  meet  the  flames  with  flames  again, 

And  at  my  door  they  cower  and  die. 

Here,  from  dim  woods,  the  aged  past 
Speaks  solemnly ;  and  I  behold 

2  A  2 


282  LATER    POEMS. 

The  boundless  future  in  the  vast 
And  lonely  river,  seaward  rolled. 

Who  feeds  its  founts  with  rain  and  dew; 
Who  moves,  I  ask,  its  gliding  mass, 

And  trains  the  bordering  vines,  whose  blue 
Bright  clusters  tempt  me  as  I  pass  ? 

Broad  are  these  streams — my  steed  obeys, 

Plunges,  and  bears  me  through  the  tide. 
Wide  are  these  woods — I  thread  the  maze 

Of  giant  stems,  nor  ask  a  guide. 
I  hunt  till  day's  last  glimmer  dies 

O'er  woody  vale  and  grassy  height ; 
And  kind  the  voice  and  glad  the  eyes 

That  welcome  my  return  at  night. 


SEVENTY-SIX.  283 


SEVENTY-SIX. 

WHAT  heroes  from  the  woodland  sprung, 
When,  through  the  fresh  awakened  land, 

The  thrilling  cry  of  freedom  rung, 

And  to  the  work  of  warfare  strung 
The  yeoman's  iron  hand ! 

Hills  flung  the  cry  to  hills  around, 

And  ocean-mart  replied  to  mart, 
And  streams,  whose  springs  were  yet  unfound, 
Pealed  far  away  the  startling  sound 

Into  the  forest's  heart. 

Then  marched  the  brave  from  rocky  steep, 

From  mountain  river  swift  and  cold ; 
The  borders  of  the  stormy  deep, 
The  vales  where  gathered  waters  sleep, 
Sent  up  the  strong  and  bold,-— 

As  if  the  very  earth  again 

Grew  quick  with  God's  creating  breath, 


284  LATER    POEMS. 


And,  from  the  sods  of  grove  and  glen, 
Rose  ranks  of  lion-hearted  men 
To  battle  to  the  death. 

The  wife,  whose  babe  first  smiled  that  day, 

The  fair  fond  bride  of  yestereve, 
And  aged  sire  and  matron  gray, 
Saw  the  loved  warriors  haste  away, 
And  deemed  it  sin  to  grieve. 

Already  had  the  strife  begun ; 

Already  blood  on  Concord's  plain 
Along  the  springing  grass  had  run, 
And  blood  had  flowed  at  Lexington, 

Like  brooks  of  April  rain. 

That  death-stain  on  the  vernal  sward 
Hallowed  to  freedom  all  the  shore ; 

In  fragments  fell  the  yoke  abhorred — 

The  footstep  of  a  foreign  lord 
Profaned  the  soil  no  more. 


THE    LIVING    LOST.  285 


THE  LIVING  LOST. 

MATRON  !  the  children  of  whose  love, 

Each  ta  his  grave,  in  youth  hath  passed, 
And  now  the  mould  is  heaped  above 

The  dearest  and  the  last! 
Bride  !  who  dost  wear  the  widow's  veil 
Before  the  wedding  flowers  are  pale ! 
Ye  deem  the  human  heart  endures 
No  deeper,  bitterer  grief  than  yours. 

Yet  there  are  pangs  of  keener  wo, 

Of  which  the  sufferers  never  speak, 
Nor  to  the  world V  cold  pity  show 
The  tears  that  scald  the  cheek, 
Wrung  from  their  eyelids  by  the  shame 
And  guilt  of  those  they  shrink  to  name, 
Whom  once  they  loved  with  cheerful  will, 
And  love,  though  fallen  and  branded,  still. 

Weep,  ye  who  sorrow  for  the  dead, 
Thus  breaking  hearts  their  pain  relieve  ; 


286  LATER    POEMS. 


And  reverenced  are  the  tears  ye  shed, 

And  honoured  ye  who  grieve. 
The  praise  of  those  who  sleep  in  earth, 
The  pleasant  memory  of  their  worth, 
The  hope  to  meet  when  life  is  past. 
Shall  heal  the  tortured  mind  at  last. 

But  ye,  who  for  the  living  lost 

That  agony  in  secret  bear, 
Who  shall  with  soothing  words  accost 

The  strength  of  your  despair  ? 
Grief  for  your  sake  is  scorn  for  them 
Whom  ye  lament  and  all  condemn ; 
And  o'er  the  world  of  spirits  lies 
A  gloom  from  which  ye  turn  your  eyes. 


CATTERSKILL    FALLS.  287 


CATTERSK1LL  FALLS. 

MIDST  greens  and  shades  the  Catterskill  leaps, 
From  cliffs  where  the  wood-flower  clings ; 

All  summer  he  moistens  his  verdant  steeps 

With  the  sweet  light  spray  of  the  mountain  springs ; 

And  he  shakes  the  woods  on  the  mountain  side, 

When  they  drip  with  the  rains  of  autumn-tide. 

* 

But  when,  in  the  forest  bare  and  old, 

The  blast  of  December  calls, 
He  builds,  in  the  starlight  clear  and  cold, 

A  palace  of  ice  where  his  torrent  falls, 
With  turret,  and  arch,  and  fretwork  fair, 
And  pillars  blue  as  the  summer  air. 

For  whom  are  those  glorious  chambers  wrought, 

In  the  cold  and  cloudless  night  ? 
Is  there  neither  spirit  nor  motion  of  thought 

In  forms  so  lovely,  and  hues  so  bright  ? 
Hear  what  the  gray-haired  woodmen  tell 
Of  this  wild  stream  and  its  rocky  dell. 


288  LATER    POEMS. 


'Twas  hither  a  youth  of  dreamy  mood, 

A  hundred  winters  ago, 
Had  wandered  over  the  mighty  wood, 

When  the  panther's  track  was  fresh  on  the  snow, 
And  keen  were  the  winds  that  came  to  stir 
The  long  dark  boughs  of  the  hemlock  fir. 

Too  gentle  of  mien  he  seemed  and  fair, 

For  a  child  of  those  rugged  steeps ; 
His  home  lay  low  in  the  valley  where 

The  kingly  Hudson  rolls  to  the  deeps  j 
But  he  wore  the  hunter's  frock  that  day, 
And  a  slender  gun  on  his  shoulder  lay. 

And  here  he  paused,  and  against  the  trunk 

Of  a  tall  gray  linden  leant, 
When  the  broad  clear  orb  of  the  sun  had  sunk 

From  his  path  in  the  frosty  firmament, 
And  over  the  round  dark  edge  of  the  hill 
A  cold  green  light  was  quivering  still. 

And  the  crescent  moon,  high  over  the  green, 

From  a  sky  of  crimson  shone, 
On  that  icy  palace,  whose  towers  were  seen 

To  sparkle  as  if  with  stars  of  their  own ; 
While  the  water  fell  with  a  hollow  sound, 
'Twixt  the  glistening  pillars  ranged  around. 


CATTERSKILL    FALLS. 


[s  that  a  being  of  life,  lliat  moves' 
Where  the  crystal  battlements  rise  ? 

A  maiden  watching  the  moon  she  loves, 
At  the  twilight  hour,  with  pensive  eyes  ? 

Was  that  a  garment  which  seemed  to  gleam 

Betwixt  the  eye  and  the  falling  stream  ? 

'Tis  only  the  torrent  tumbling  o'er, 
In  the  midst  of  those  glassy  walls, 

Gushing,  and  plunging,  and  beating  the  floor 
Of  the  rocky  basin  in  which  it  falls. 

'Tis  only  the  torrent  —  but  why  that  start  ? 

Why  gazes  the  youth  with  a  throbbing  heart  ? 

He  thinks  no  more  of  his  home  afar, 

Where  his  sire  and  sister  wait. 
He  heeds  no  longer  how  star  after  star 

Looks  forth  on  the  night  as  the  hour  grows  late 
He  heeds  not  the  snow-wreaths,  lifted  and  cast 
From  a  thousand  boughs,  by  the  rising  blast. 

His  thoughts  are  alone  of  those  who  dwell 

In  the  halls  of  frost  and  snow, 
Who  pass  where  the  crystal  domes  upswell 

From  the  alabaster  floors  below, 
Where  the  frost-trees  shoot  with  leaf  and  spray, 
And  frost-gems  scatter  a  silvery  day. 

2B 


290  LATER    POEMS. 

"And  oh  that  those  glorious  haunts  were  mine!" 

He  speaks,  and  throughout  the  glen 
Thin  shadows  swim  in  the  faint  moonshine, 

And  take  a  ghastly  likeness  of  men, 
As  if  the  slain  by  the  wintry  storms 
Came  forth  to  the  air  in  their  earthly  forms. 

There  pass  the  chasers  of  seal  and  whale, 

With  their  weapons  quaint  and  grim, 
And  bands  of  warriors  in  glittering  mail, 

And  herdsmen  and  hunters  huge  of  limb. 
There  are  naked  arms,  with  bow  and  spear, 
And  furry  gauntlets  the  carbine  rear. 

There  are  mothers — and  oh  how  sadly  their  eyes 

On  their  children's  white  brows  rest ! 
There  are  youthful  lovers — the  maiden  lies, 

In  a  seeming  sleep,  on  the  chosen  breast ; 
There  are  fair  wan  women  with  moonstruck  air, 
The  snow  stars  flecking  their  long  loose  hair. 

They  eye  him  not  as  they  pass  along, 

But  his  hair  stands  up  with  dread, 
When  he  feels  that  he  moves  with  that  phantom  throng, 

Till  those  icy  turrets  are  over  his  head, 
And  the  torrent's  roar  as  they  enter  seems 
Like  a  drowsy  murmur  heard  in  dreams. 


CATTER  SKILL    FALLS.  2<)1 

The  glittering  threshold  is  scarcely  passed, 
When  there  gathers  and  wraps  him  round 

A  thick  white  twilight,  sullen  and  vast, 
In  which  there  is  neither  form  nor  sound  ; 

The  phantoms,  the  glory,  vanish  all, 

With  the  dying  voice  of  the  waterfall. 

Slow  passes  the  darkness  of  that  trance, 

And  the  youth  now  faintly  sees 
Huge  shadows  and  gushes  of  light  that  dance 

On  a  rugged  ceiling  of  unhewn  trees, 
And  walls  where  the  skins  of  beasts  are  hung, 
And  rifles  glitter  on  antlers  strung. 

On  a  couch  of  shaggy  skins  he  lies ; 

As  he  strives  to  raise  his  head, 
Hard-featured  woodmen,  with  kindly  eyes, 

Come  round  him  and  smooth  his  furry  bed, 
And  bid  him  rest,  for  the  evening  star 
Is  scarcely  set  and  the  day  is  far. 

They  had  found  at  eve  the  dreaming  one 

By  the  base  of  that  icy  steep, 
When  over  his  stiffening  limbs  begun 

The  deadly  slumber  of  frost  to  creep, 
And  they  cherished  the  pale  and  breathless  form, 
Till  the  stagnant  blood  ran  free  and  warm. 


292  LATER    POEMS. 


THE   STRANGE  LADY. 

THE  summer  morn  is  bright  and  fresh,  the  birds  are  darting  by, 
As  if  they  loved  to  breast  the  breeze  that  sweeps  the  cool  clear  sky; 
Young  Albert,  in  the  forest's  edge,  has  heard  a  rustling  sound, 
An  arrow  slightly  strikes  his  hand  and  falls  upon  the  ground. 

A  dark-haired  woman  from  the  wood  comes  suddenly  in  sight; 
Her  merry  eye  is  full  and  black,  her  cheek  is  brown  and  bright; 
Her  gown  is  of  the  mid-sea  blue,  her  belt  with  beads  is  strung, 
And  yet  she  speaks  in  gentle  tones,  and  in  the  English  tongue. 

"It  was  an  idle  bolt  I  sent,  against  the  villain  crow; 

Fair  sir,  I  fear  it  harmed  thy  hand  ;  beshrew  my  erring  bow!" 

"Ah!  would  that  bolt  had  not  been  spent!  then,  lady,  might 

I  wear 
A  lasting  token  on  my  hand  of  one  so  passing  fair!" 

"Thou  art  a  flatterer  like  the  rest,  but  wouldst  thou  take  with  me 
A  day  of  hunting  in  the  wilds,  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  know  where  most  the  pheasants  feed,  and  where  the  red-deer 

herd, 
And  thou  shouldst  chase  the  nobler  game,  and  I  bring  down 

the  bird." 


THE    STRANGE    LADY.  293 

Now  Albert  in  her  quiver  lays  the  arrow  in  its  place, 

And  wonders  as  he  gazes  on  the  beauty  of  her  face : 

«  Those  hunting-grounds  are  far  away,  and,  lady ,  'twere  not  meet 

That  night,  amid  the  wilderness,  should  overtake  thy  feet." 

"Heed  not  the  night;  a  summer  lodge  amidthewild  ismine, — 
'Tis  shadowed  by  the  tulip-tree,  'tis  mantled  by  the  vine ; 
The  wild  plum  sheds  its  yellow  fruit  from  fragrant  thickets  nigh, 
And  flowery  prairies  from  the  door  stretch  till  they  meet  the  sky. 

"  There  in  the  boughs  that  hide  the  roof  the  mock-bird  sits  and 

sings, 

And  there  the  hang-bird's  brood  within  its  little  hammock  swings; 
A  pebbly  brook,  where  rustling  winds  among  the  hopples  sweep, 
Shall  lull  thee  till  the  morning  sun  looks  in  upon  thy  sleep." 

Away,  into  the  forest  depths  by  pleasant  paths  they  go, 

He  with  his  rifle  on  his  arm,  the  lady  with  her  bow, 

Where   cornels   arch  their  cool   dark  boughs  o'er  beds  of 

winter-green, 
And  never  at  his  father's  door  again  was  Albert  seen. 

That  night  upon  the  woods  came  down  a  furious  hurricane, 
With  howl  of  winds  and  roar  of  streams,  and  beating  of  the  rain; 
The  mighty  thunder  broke  and  drowned  the  noises  in  its  crash ; 
The  old  trees  seemed  to  fight  like  fiends  beneath  the  lightning- 
flash. 


294  LATER    POEMS. 


Next  day,  within  a  mossy  glen,  'mid  mouldering  trunks  were 

found 

The  fragments  of  a  human  form  upon  the  bloody  ground  ; 
White  bones  from  which  the  flesh  was  tom,  and  locks  of 

glossy  hair; 
They  laid  them  in  the  place  of  graves,  yet  wist  not  whose 

they  were. 

And  whether  famished  evening  wolves  had  mangled  Albert  so, 
Or  that  strange  dame  so  gay  and  fair  were  some  mysterious  foe, 
Or  whether  to  that  forest  lodge,  beyond  the  mountains  blue, 
He  went  to  dwell  with  her,  the  friends  who  mourned  him 
never  knew. 


LIFE.  295 


LIFE. 

OH  Life !  I  breathe  thee  in  the  breeze, 
I  feel  thee  bounding  in  my  veins, 

I  see  thee  in  these  stretching  trees, 

Thes°  flowers,  this  still  rock's  mossy  stains. 

This  stream  of  odours  flowing  by 

From  clover-field  and  clumps  of  pine, 

This  music,  thrilling  all  the  sky, 

From  all  the  morning  birds,  are  thine. 

Thou  fill'st  with  joy  this  little  one, 

That  leaps  and  shouts  beside  me  here, 

Where  Isar's  clay-white  rivulets  run 

Through  the  dark  woods  like  frighted  deer. 

Ah !  must  thy  mighty  breath,  that  wakes 
Insect  and  bird,  and  flower  and  tree, 

• 

From  the  low  trodden  dust,  and  makes 
Their  daily  gladness,  pass  from  roe — 


296  LATER    POEMS. 

Pass,  pulse  by  pulse,  till  o'er  the  ground 

These  limbs,  now  strong,  shall  creep  with  pain, 

And  this  fair  world  of  sight  and  sound 
Seem  fading  into  night  again  ? 

The  things,  oh  LIFE  !    thou  quickenest,  all 
Strive  upwards  toward  the  broad  bright  sky, 

Upward  and  outward,  and  they  fall 
Back  to  earth's  bosom  when  they  die. 

All  that  have  borne  the  touch  of  death, 
All  that  shall  live,  lie  mingled  there, 

Beneath  that  veil  of  bloom  and  breath, 
That  living  zone  'twixt  earth  and  air. 

There  lies  my  chamber  dark  and  still, 

The  atoms  trampled  by  my  feet, 
There  wait,  to  take  the  place  I  fill 

In  the  sweet  air  and  sunshine  sweet. 

Well,  I  have  had  my  turn,  have  been 
Raised  from  the  darkness  of  the  clod, 

And  for  a  glorious  moment  seen 

The  brightness  of  the  skirts  of  God  ; 

• 

4nd  knew  the  light  within  my  breast, 
Though  wavering  oftentimes  and  dim, 


LIFE.  297 


The  power,  the  will,  that  never  rest, 
And  cannot  die,  were  all  from  him. 

Dear  child !  I  know  that  thou  wilt  grieve 
To  see  me  taken  from  thy  love, 

Wilt  seek  my  grave  at  Sabbath  eve, 
And  weep,  and  scatter  flowers  above. 

Thy  little  heart  will  soon  be  healed, 
And  being  shall  be  bliss,  till  thou 

To  younger  forms  of  life  must  yield 
The  place  thou  fill'st  with  beauty  now. 

When  we  descend  to  dust  again, 
Where  will  the  final  dwelling  be 

Of  Thought  and  all  its  memories  then, 
My  love  for  thee,  and  thine  for  me  ? 


298  LATER    POEMS. 


"EARTH'S  CHILDREN  CLEAVE  TO  EARTH.'' 

EARTH'S  children  cleave  to  Earth — her  frail 

Decaying  children  dread  decay. 
Yon  wreath  of  mist  that  leaves  the  vale, 

And  lessens  in  the  morning  ray  : 
Look,  how,  by  mountain  rivulet, 

It  lingers  as  it  upward  creeps, 
And  clings  to  fern  and  copsewood  set 

Along  the  green  and  dewy  steeps  : 
Clings  to  the  fragrant  kalmia,  clings 

To  precipices  fringed  with  grass, 
Dark  maples  where  the  wood-thrush  sings, 

And  bowers  of  fragrant  sassafras. 
STet  all  in  vain — it  passes  still 

Fron^hold  to  hold,  it  cannot  stay, 
And  in  the  very  beams  that  fill 

The  world  with  glory,  wastes  away, 
Till,  parting  from  the  mountain's  brow, 

It  vanishes  from  human  eye, 
And  that  which  sprung  of  earth  is  now 

A  portion  of  the  glorious  sky. 


THE    HUNTER'S    VISION.  299 


THE   HUNTER'S  VISION. 

UPON  a  rock  that,  high  and  sheer, 
Rose  from  the  mountain's  breast, 

A  weary  hunter  of  the  deer 
Had  sat  him  down  to  rest, 

And  bared  to  the  soft  summer  ait 

His  hot  red  brow  and  sweaty  hair. 

All  dim  in  haze  the  mountains  lay, 
With  dimmer  vales  between  ; 

And  rivers  glimmered  on  their  way, 
By  forests  faintly  seen  ; 

While  ever  rose  a  murmuring  sound, 

From  brooks  below  and  bees  around. 

He  listened,  till  he  seemed  to  hear 

A  strain,  so  soft  and  low, 
That  whether  in  the  mind  or  ear 

The  listener  scarce  might  know. 
With  such  a  tone,  so  sweet  and  mild, 
The  watching  mother  lulls  her  child. 


300  LATER    POEMS. 

"Thou  weary  huntsman,"  thus  it  said, 

"Thou  faint  with  toil  and  heat, 
The  pleasant  land  of  rest  is  spread 

Before  thy  very  feet, 

And  those  whom  thou  wouldst  gladly  see 
Are  waiting  there  to  welcome  thee." 

He  looked,  and  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky 

Amid  the  noontide  haze, 
A  shadowy  region  met  his  eye, 

And  grew  beneath  his  gaze, 
As  if  the  vapours  of  the  air 
Had  gathered  into  shapes  so  fair. 

s  r  •  - 

Groves  freshened  as  he  looked,  and  flowers 
Showed  bright  on  rocky  bank, 

And  fountains  welled  beneath  the  bowers, 
Where  deer  and  pheasant  drank. 

He  saw  the  glittering  streams,  he  heard 

The  rustling  bough  and  twittering  bird. 

And  friends — the  dead — in  boyhood  dear, 
There  lived  and  walked  again, 

And  there  was  one  who  many  a  year 
Within  her  grave  had  lain, 

A  fair  young  girl,  the  hamlet's  pride — 

His  heart  was  breaking  when  she  died  : 


THE    HUNTER'S    VISION.  3Q1 

Bounding,  as  was  her  wont,  she  came 

Right  towards  his  resting-place, 
And  stretched  her  hand  and  called  his  name 

With  that  sweet  smiling  face. 
Forward  with  fixed  and  eager  eyes, 
The  hunter  leaned  in  act  to  rise : 

Forward  he  leaned,  and  headlong  down 

Plunged  from  that  craggy  wall ; 
He  saw  the  rocks,  steep,  stern,  and  brown, 

An  instant,  in  his  fall; 
A  frightful  instant— and  no  more, 
The  dream  and  life  at  once  were  o'er. 


302  LATER  POEMb. 


THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS. 


i. 

HERE  we  halt  our  march,  and  pitch  our  tent 

On  the  rugged  forest  ground, 
And  light  our  fire  with  the  branches  rent 

By  winds  from  the  beeches  round. 
Wild  storms  have  torn  this  ancient  wood, 

But  a  wilder  is  at  hand, 
With  hail  of  iron  and  rain  of  blood, 

To  sweep  and  waste  the  land. 

n. 
How  the  dark  wood  rings  with  voices  shrill, 

That  startle  the  sleeping  bird  ; 
To-morrow  eve  must  the  voice  be  still, 

And  the  step  must  fall  unheard. 
The  Briton  lies  by  the  blue  Champlain, 

In  Ticonderoga's  towers, 
And  ere  the  sun  rise  twice  again, 

The  towers  and  the  lake  are  ours. 


THE    GREEN    MOUNTAIN    BOYS.  303 

in. 
Fill  up  the  bowl  from  the  brook  that  glides 

Where  the  fireflies  light  the  brake  ; 
A  ruddier  juice  the  Briton  hides 

In  his  fortress  by  the  lake. 
Build  high  the  fire,  till  the  panther  leap 

From  his  lofty  perch  in  flight, 
And  we'll  strengthen  our  weary  arms  with  sleep 

For  the  deeds  of  to-morrow  night. 


304  LATER    POEMS. 


A  PRESENTIMENT. 

"On  father,  let  us  hence — for  hark, 
A  fearful  murmur  shakes  the  air ; 

The  clouds  are  coming  swift  and  dark ; — 
What  horrid  shapes  they  wear ! 

A  winged  giant  sails  the  sky ; 

Oh  father,  father,  let  us  fly !" 

"Hush,  child  ;  it  is  a  grateful  sound, 

That  beating  of  the  summer  shower ; 
Here,  where  the  boughs  hang  close  around, 

We'll  pass  a  pleasant  hour, 
Till  the  fresh  wind,  that  brings  the  rain, 
Has  swept  the  broad  heaven  clear  again." 

"Nay,  father,  let  us  haste — for  see, 

That  horrid  thing  with  horned  brow, — 

His  wings  o'erhang  this  very  tree, 
He  scowls  upon  us  now ; 

His  huge  black  arm  is  lifted  high ; 

Oh  father,  father,  let  us  fly !" 


A    PRESENTIMENT.  305 


"Hush,  child  ;"  but,  as  the  father  spoke, 

Downward  the  livid  firebolt  came, 
Close  to  his  ear  the  thunder  broke, 

And,  blasted  by  the  flame, 
The  child  lay  dead ;  while  dark  and  still. 
Swept  the  grim  cloud  along  the  hill. 


2c* 


306  LATER    POEMS. 


THE   CHILD'S   FUNERAL. 


FAIR  is  thy  site,  Sorrento,  green  thy  shore, 

Black  crags  behind  thee  pierce  the  clear  blue  skies; 

The  sea,  whose  borderers  ruled  the  world  of  yore, 
As  clear  and  bluer  still  before  thee  lies. 

Vesuvius  smokes  in  sight,  whose  fount  of  fire, 
Outgushing,  drowned  the  cities  on  his  steeps ; 

And  murmuring  Naples,  spire  o'ertopping  spire, 
Sits  on  the  slope  beyond  where  Virgil  sleeps. 

Here  doth  the  earth,  with  flowers  of  every  hue, 
Heap  her  green  breast  when  April  suns  are  bright, 

Flowers  of  the  morning-red,  or  ocean-blue, 
Or  like  the  mountain  frost  of  silvery  white. 

Currents  of  fragrance,  from  the  orange  tree, 
And  sward  of  violets,  breathing  to  and  fro, 

Mingle,  and  wandering  out  upon  the  sea, 
Refresh  the  idle  boatsman  where  they  blow. 


THE    CHILD'S    FUNERAL.  307 


Yet  even  here,  as  under  harsher  climes, 
Tears  for  the  loved  and  early  lost  are  shed ; 

That  soft  air  saddens  with  the  funeral  chimes, 
Those  shining  flowers  are  gathered  for  the  dead. 

Here  once  a  child,  a  smiling  playful  one, 
All  the  day  long  caressing  and  caressed, 

Died  when  its  little  tongue  had  just  begun 
To  lisp  the  names  of  those  it  loved  the  best. 

The  father  strove  his  struggling  grief  to  quell, 
The  mother  wept  as  mothers  use  to  weep, 

Two  little  sisters  wearied  them  to  tell 

When  their  dear  Carlo  would  awake  from  sleep. 

Within  an  inner  room  his  couch  they  spread, 
His  funeral  couch  ;  with  mingled  grief  and  love, 

They  laid  a  crown  of  roses  on  his  head, 
And  murmured,  "Brighter  is  his  crown  above." 

They  scattered  round  him,  on  the  snowy  sheet, 
Laburnum's  strings  of  sunny-coloured  gems, 

Sad  hyacinths,  and  violets  dim  and  sweet, 

And  orange  blossoms  on  their  dark  green  stems. 

And  now  the  hour  is  come,  the  priest  is  there ; 
Torches  are  lit  and  bells  are  tolled ;  they  go, 


308  LATER    POEMS. 


With  solemn  rites  of  blessing  and  of  prayer, 
To  lay  the  little  corpse  in  earth  below. 

The  door  is  opened  ;  hark !  that  quick  glad  cry  ; 

Carlo  has  waked,  has  waked,  and  is  at  play ; 
The  little  sisters  laugh  and  leap,  and  try 

To  climb  the  bed  on  which  the  infant  lay. 

And  there  he  sits  alone,  and  gayly  shakes 

In  his  full  hands,  the  blossoms  red  and  white, 

And  smiles  with  winking  eyes,  like  one  who  wakes 
From  long  deep  slumbers  at  the  morning  light. 


THE    BATTLE-FIELD. 


309 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

ONCE  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 
And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 

Encountered  in  the  battle  cloud. 

,  • 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave- 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still, 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry, 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again! 


310  LATER    POEMS. 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year. 

A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot. 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou  not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  bora. 

«  ",*•'--    '•'*     * 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again ; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  with  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 


THE    BATTLE-FIELD. 


Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


312  LATER    POEMS. 


THE  FUTURE  LIFE. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 

The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead, 
When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 

And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  ? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there  ? 

That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were  given? 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 

Shall  it  be  banished  from  thy  tongue  in  heaven  ? 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life-breathing  wind, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here  ? 


THE    FUTURE    LIFE  313 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more  ? 

f 
A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light, 

Await  thee  there  ;  for  thou  hast  bowed  thy  will 
In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell, 

Shrink  and  consume  my  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll ; 

And  wrath  has  left  its  scar — that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home, 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this- 

The  wisdom  which  is  love — till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss  ? 


2D 


314  LATER    POEMS. 


THE  DEATH  OF   SCHILLER. 

'Tis  said,  when  Schiller's  death  drew  nigh, 
The  wish  possessed  his  mighty  mind, 

To  wander  forth  wherever  lie 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  human-kind. 

Then  strayed  the  poet,  in  his  dreams, 
By  Rome  and  Egypt's  ancient  graves ; 

Went  up  the  New  World's  forest  streams, 
Stood  in  the  Hindoo's  temple-caves; 

Walked  with  the  Pawnee,  fierce  and  stark, 
The  sallow  Tartar,  midst  his  herds, 

The  peering  Chinese,  and  the  dark 
False  Malay  uttering  gentle  words. 

How  could  he  rest  ?  even  then  he  trod 
The  threshold  of  the  world  unknown  ; 

Already,  from  the  seat  of  God, 
A  ray  upon  his  garments  shone ; — 


THE    DEATH    OF    SCHILLER.  315 


Shone  and  awoke  the  strong  desire 

For  love  and  knowledge  reached  not  here, 

Till,  freed  by  death,  his  soul  of  fire 
Sprang  to  a  fairer,  ampler  sphere. 

Then — who  shall  tell  how  deep,  how  bright 
The  abyss  of  glory  opened  round  ? 

How  thought  and  feeling  flowed  like  light, 
Through  ranks  of  being  without  bound  ? 


316  LATER    POEMS. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

FOUNTAIN,  that  springest  on  this  grassy  slope, 
Thy  quick  cool  murmur  mingles  pleasantly, 
With  the  cool  sound  of  breezes  in  the  beach, 
Above  me  in  the  noontide.     Thou  dost  wear 
No  stain  of  thy  dark  birthplace  ;  gushing  up 
From  the  red  mould  and  slimy  roots  of  earth, 
Thou  flashest  in  the  sun.     The  mountain  air, 
In  winter,  is  not  clearer,  nor  the  dew 
That  shines  on  mountain  blossom.     Thus  doth  God 
Bring,  from  the  dark  and  foul,  the  pure  and  bright. 

This  tangled  thicket  on  the  bank  above 
Thy  basin,  how  thy  waters  keep  it  green ! 
For  thou  dost  feed  the  roots  of  the  wild  vine 
That  trails  all  over  it,  and  to  the  twigs 
Ties  fast  her  clusters.     There  the  spice-bush  lifts 
Her  leafy  lances  ;  the  viburnum  there, 
Paler  of  foliage,  to  the  sun  holds  up 
Her  circlet  of  green  berries.     In  and  out 


THE     FOUNTAIN.  :U7 

The  chipping  sparrow,  in  her  coat  of  brown, 
Steals  silently,  lest  X  should  mark  her  nest. 

Not  such  thou  wert  of  yore,  ere  yet  the  axe 
Had  smitten  the  old  woods.     Then  hoary  trunks 
Of  oak,  and  plane,  and  hickory,  o'er  thee  held 
A  mighty  canopy.     When  April  winds 
Grew  soft,  the  maple  burst  into  a  flush 
Of  scarlet  flowers.     The  tulip-tree,  high  up, 
Opened,  in  airs  of  June,  her  multitude 
Of  golden  chalices  to  humming-birds 
And  silken-winged  insects  of  the  sky. 

Frail  wood-plants  clustered  round  thy  edge  in  Spring. 
The  liverleaf  put  forth  her  sister  blooms 
Of  faintest  blue.     Here  the  quick-footed  wolf, 
Passing  to  lap  thy  waters,  crushed  the  flower 
Of  sanguinaria,  from  whose  brittle  stem 
The  red  drops  fell  like  blood.     The  deer,  too,  left 
Her  delicate  foot-print  in  the  soft  moist  mould, 
And  on  the  fallen  leaves.     The  slow-paced  bear, 
In  such  a  sultry  summer  noon  as  this, 
Slopped  at  thy  stream,  and  drank,  and  leaped  across. 

But  thou  hast  histories  that  stir  the  heart 
With  deeper  feeling ;  while  I  look  on  thee 
They  rise  before  me.  I  behold  the  scene 


318  LATER    POEMS. 

Hoary  again  with  forests  ;  I  behold 

The  Indian  warrior,  whom  a  hand  unseen 

Has  smitten  with  his  death-wound  in  the  woods, 

Creep  slowly  to  thy  well-known  rivulet, 

And  slake  his  death-thirst.    Hark,  that  quick  fierce  cry 

That  rends  the  utter  silence  ;  'tis  the  whoop 

Of  battle,  and  a  throng  of  savage  men 

With  naked  arms  and  faces  stained  like  blood, 

Fill  the  green  wilderness  ;  the  long  bare  arms 

Are  heaved  aloft,  bows  twang  and  arrows  stream ; 

Each  makes  a  tree  his  shield,  and  every  tree 

Sends  forth  its  arrow.     Fierce  the  fight  and  short, 

As  is  the  whirlwind.     Soon  the  conquerors 

And  conquered  vanish,  and  the  dead  remain 

Mangled  by  tomahawks.     The  mighty  woods 

Are  still  again,  the  frighted  bird  comes  back 

And  plumes  her  wings ;  but  thy  sweet  waters  run 

Crimson  with  blood.     Then,  as  the  sun  goes  down, 

Amid  the  deepening  twilight  I  descry 

Figures  of  men  that  crouch  and  creep  unheard, 

And  bear  away  the  dead.     The  next  day's  shower 

Shall  wash  the  tokens  of  the  fight  away. 

I  look  again — a  hunter's  lodge  is  built, 
With  poles  and  boughs,  beside  thy  crystal  well, 
While  the  meek  autumn  stains  the  woods  with  gold, 
And  sheds  his  golden  sunshine.     To  the  door 


THE    FOUNTAIN.  319 

The  red  man  slowly  drags  the  enormous  bear 
Slain  in  the  chestnut  thicket,  or  flings  down 
The  deer  from  his  strong  shoulders.     Shaggy  fells 
Of  wolf  and  cougar  hang  upon  the  walls, 
And  loud  the  black-eyed  Indian  maidens  laugh, 
That  gather,  from  the  rustling  heaps  of  leaves, 
The  hickory's  white  nuts,  and  the  dark  fruit 
That  falls  from  the  gray  butternut's  long  boughs. 

So  centuries  passed  by,  and  still  the  woods 
Blossomed  in  spring,  and  reddened  when  the  year 
Grew  chill,  and  glistened  in  the  frozen  rains 
Of  winter,  till  the  white  man  swung  the  axe 
Beside  thee — signal  of  a  mighty  change. 
Then  all  around  was  heard  the  crash  of  trees, 
Trembling  awhile  and  rushing  to  the  ground, 
The  low  of  ox,  and  shouts  of  men  who  fired 
The  brushwood,  or  who  tore  the  earth  with  ploughs. 
The  grain  sprang  thick  and  tall,  and  hid  in  green 
The  blackened  hill-side  ;  ranks  of  spiky  maize 
Rose  like  a  host  embattled  ;  the  buckwheat 
Whitened  broad  acres,  sweetening  with  its  flowers 
The  August  wind.     White  cottages  were  seen 
With  rose-trees  at  the  windows ;  barns  from  which 
Came  loud  and  shrill  the  crowing  of  the  cock; 
Pastures  where  rolled  and  neighed  the  lordly  horse. 
And  white  flocks  browsed  and  bleated.     A  rich  turf 


320  LATER    POEMS. 

Of  grasses  brought  from  far  o'ercrept  thy  bank, 
Spotted  with  the  white  clover.     Blue-eyed  girls 
Brought  pails,  and  dipped  them  in  thy  crystal  pool; 
And  children,  ruddy-cheeked  and  flaxen-haired, 
Gathered  the  glistening  cowslip  from  thy  edge. 

Since  then,  what  steps  have  trod  thy  border!     Here 
On  thy  green  bank,  the  woodman  of  the  swamp 
Has  laid  his  axe,  the  reaper  of  the  hill 
His  sickle,  as  they  stooped  to  taste  thy  stream. 
The  sportsman,  tired  with  wandering  in  the  still 
September  noon,  has  bathed  his  heated  brow 
In  thy  cool  current.     Shouting  boys,  let  loose 
For  a  wild  holiday,  have  quaintly  shaped 
Into  a  cup  the  folded  linden  leaf, 
And  dipped  thy  sliding  crystal.     From  the  wars 
Returning,  the  plumed  soldier  by  thy  side 
Has  sat,  and  mused  how  pleasant  'twere  to  dwell 
In  such  a  spot,  and  be  as  free  as  thou, 
And  move  for  no  man's  bidding  more.     At  eve, 
When  thou  wert  crimson  with  the  crimson  sky, 
Lovers  have  gazed  upon  thee,  and  have  thought 
Their  mingled  lives  should  flow  as  peacefully 
And  brightly  as  thy  waters.     Here  the  sage, 
Gazing  into  thy  self-replenished  depth, 
Has  seen  eternal  order  circumscribe 
And  bind  the  motions  of  eternal  change, 


THE    FOUNTAIN.  321 

And  from  the  gushing  of  thy  simple  fount 
Has  reasoned  to  the  mighty  universe. 

Is  there  no  other  change  for  thee,  that  lurks 
Among  the  future  ages  ?     Will  not  man 
Seek  out  strange  arts  to  wither  and  deform 
The  pleasant  landscape  which  thou  makest  green  ? 
Or  shall  the  veins  that  feed  thy  constant  stream 
Be  choked  in  middle  earth,  and  flow  no  more 
For  ever,  that  the  water-plants  along 
Thy  channel  perish,  and  the  bird  in  vain 
Alight  to  drink  ?     Haply  shall  these  green  hills 
Sink,  with  the  lapse  of  years,  into  the  gulf 
Of  ocean  waters,  and  thy  source  be  lost 
Amidst  the  bitter  brine  ?     Or  shall  they  rise, 
Upheaved  in  broken  cliffs  and  airy  peaks, 
Haunts  of  the  eagle  and  the  snake,  and  thou 
Gush  midway  from  the  bare  and  barren  steep  ? 


322  LATER    POEMS. 


THE  WINDS. 


i. 

YE  winds,  ye  unseen  currents  of  the  air, 

Softly  ye  played  a  few  brief  hours  ago  ; 
Ye  bore  the  murmuring  bee  ;  ye  tossed  the  hair 

O'er  maiden  cheeks,  that  took  a  fresher  glow ; 
Ye  rolled  the  round  white  cloud  through  depths  of  blue ; 
Ye  shook  from  shaded  flowers  the  lingering  dew; 
Before  you  the  catalpa's  blossoms  flew, 

Light  blossoms,  dropping  on  the  grass  like  snow. 

ii. 
How  are  ye  changed!     Ye  take  the  cataract's  sound ; 

Ye  take  the  whirlpool's  fury  and  its  might ; 
The  mountain  shudders  as  ye  sweep  the  ground ; 

The  valley  woods  lie  prone  beneath  your  flight. 
The  clouds  before  you  shoot  like  eagles  past ; 
The  homes  of  men  are  rocking  in  your  blast ; 
Ye  lift  the  roofs  like  autumn  leaves,  and  cast, 

Skyward,  the  whirling  fragments  out  of  sight. 


THE    WINDS.  323 


ill. 
The  weary  fowls  of  heaven  make  wing  in  vain, 

To  escape  your  wrath  ;  ye  seize  and  dash  them  dead. 
Against  the  earth  ye  drive  the  roaring  rain ; 

The  harvest-field  becomes  a  river's  bed  ; 
And  torrents  tumble  from  the  hills  around, 
Plains  turn  to  lakes,  and  villages  are  drowned, 
And  wailing  voices,  midst  the  tempest's  sound, 

Rise,  as  the  rushing  waters  swell  and  spread. 

IV. 

*t  % 

Ye  dart  upon  the  deep,  and  straight  is  heard 

A  wilder  roar,  and  men  grow  pale,  and  pray ; 
Ye  fling  its  floods  around  you,  as  a  bird 

Flings  o'er  his  shivering  plumes  the  fountain's  spray 
SeeJ  to  the  breaking  mast  the  sailor  clings ; 
Ye  scoop  the  ocean  to  its  briny  springs, 
And  take  the  mountain  billow  on  your  wings, 

And  pile  the  wreck  of  navies  round  the  bay. 

7. 

Why  rage  ye  thus  ? — no  strife  for  liberty 

Has  made  you  mad ;  no  tyrant,  strong  through  fear, 

Has  chained  your  pinions  till  ye  wrenched  them  free, 
And  rushed  into  the  unmeasured  atmosphere ; 

For  ye  were  born  in  freedom  where  ye  blow; 

Free  o'er  the  mighty  deep  to  come  and  go  ; 


324  LATER    POEMS. 

Earth's  solemn  woods  were  yours,  her  wastes  of  snow, 
Her  isles  where  summer  blossoms  all  the  year. 


O  YE  wild  winds !  a  mightier  Power  than  yours 

In  chains  upon  the  shore  of  Europe  lies ; 
The  sceptred  throng,  whose  fetters  he  endures, 

Watch  his  mute  throes  with  terror  in  their  eyes : 
And  armed  warriors  all  around  him  stand, 
And,  as  he  struggles,  tighten  every  band, 
And  lift  the  heavy  spear,  with  threatening  hand, 
To  pierce  the  victim,  should  he  strive  to  rise. 

VII. 

Yet  oh,  when  that  wronged  Spirit  of  our  race 

Shall  break,  as  soon  he  must,  his  long-worn  chains, 
A.nd  leap  in  freedom  from  his  prison-place, 

Lord  of  his  ancient  hills  and  fruitful  plains, 
Let  him  not  rise,  like  these  mad  winds  of  air, 
To  waste  the  loveliness  that  time  could  spare, 
To  fill  the  earth  with  wo,  and  blot  her  fair 

Unconscious  breast  with  blood  from  human  veins. 

VIII. 

But  may  he  like  the  spring-time  come  abroad, 
Who  crumbles  winter's  gyves  with  gentle  might, 


THE    WINDS.  325 


When  in  the  genial  breeze,  the  breath  of  God, 

Come  spouting  up  the  unsealed  springs  to  light ; 
Flowers  start  from  their  dark  prisons  at  his  feet, 
The  woods,  long  dumb,  awake  to  hymnmgs  sweet, 
And  morn  and  eve,  whose  glimmerings  almost  meet, 
Crowd  back  to  narrow  bounds  the  ancient  night. 


LATER 


THE   OLD  MAN'S   COUNSEL. 

AMONG  our  hills  and  valleys,  I  have  known 
Wise  and  grave  men,  who,  while  their  diligent  hand 
Tended  or  gathered  in  the  fruits  of  earth, 
Were  reverent  learners  in  the  solemn  school 
Of  nature.     Not  in  vain  to  them  were  sent 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  or  the  vernal  shower 
That  darkened  the  brown  tilth,  or  snow  that  beat 
On  the  white  winter  hills.     Each  brought,  in  turn, 
Some  truth,  some  lesson  on  the  life  of  man, 
Or  recognition  of  the  Eternal  mind 
Who  veils  his  glory  with  the  elements. 

One  such  I  knew  long  since,  a  white-haired  man, 
Pithy  of  speech,  and  merry  when  he  would  ; 
A  genial  optimist,  who  daily  drew 
From  what  he  saw  his  quaint  moralities. 
Kindly  he  held  communion,  though  so  old, 
With  me  a  dreaming  boy,  and  taught  me  much 
That  books  tell  not,  and  I  shall  ne'er  forget. 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    COUNSEL.  327 

The  sun  of  May  was  bright  in  middle  heaven, 
And  steeped  the  sprouting  forests,  the  green  hills 
And  emerald  wheat-fields,  in  his  yellow  light. 
Upon  the  apple-tree,  where  rosy  buds 
Stood  clustered,  ready  to  burst  forth  in  bloom, 
The  robin  warbled  forth  his  full  clear  note 
For  hours,  and  wearied  not.     Within  the  woods, 
Whose  young  and  half  transparent  leaves  scarce  cast 
A  shade,  gay  circles  of  anemones 
Danced  on  their  stalks;  the  shadbush,  white  with  flowers, 
Brightened  the  glens;  the  new-leaved  butternut 
And  quivering  poplar  to  the  roving  breeze 
Gave  a  balsamic  fragrance.     In  the  fields 
I  saw  the  pulses  of  the  gentle  wind 
On  the  young  grass.     My  heart  was  touched  with  joy 
At  so  much  beauty,  flushing  every  hour 
Into  a  fuller  beauty  ;  but  my  friend, 
The  thoughtful  ancient,  standing  at  my  side, 
Gazed  on  it  mildly  sad.     I  asked  him  why. 

"Well  mayst  thou  join  in  gladness,"  he  replied, 
«»With  the  glad  earth,  her  springing  plants  and  flowers, 
And  this  soft  wind,  the  herald  of  the  green 
Luxuriant  summer.     Thou  art  young  like  them, 
And  well  mayst  thou  rejoice.     But  while  the  flight 
Of  seasons  fills  and  knits  thy  spreading  frame, 
It  withers  mine,  and  thins  my  hair,  and  dims 


828  LATER    POEMS. 


These  eyes,  whose  fading  light  shall  soon  be  quenched 
In  utter  darkness.     Hearest  thou  that  bird  ?" 

I  listened,  and  from  midst  the  depth  of  woods 
Heard  the  love-signal  of  the  grouse,  that  wears 
A  sable  ruff  around  his  mottled  neck ; 
Partridge  they  call  him  by  our  northern  streams, 
And  pheasant  by  the  Delaware.     He  beat 
'Gainst  his  barred  sides  his  speckled  wings,  and  made 
A  sound  like  distant  thunder  ;  slow  the  strokes 
At  first,  then  fast  and  faster,  till  at  length 
They  passed  into  a  murmur  and  were  still. 

«  There  hast  thou,"  said  my  friend,  «  a  fitting  type 
Of  human  life.     'Tis  an  old  truth,  I  know, 
But  images  like  these  revive  the  power 
Of  long  familiar  truths.     Slow  pass  our  days 
In  childhood,  and  the  hours  of  light  are  long 
Betwixt  the  morn  and  eve ;  with  swifter  lapse 
They  glide  in  manhood,  and  in  age  they  fly; 
Till  days  and  seasons  flit  before  the  mind 
As  flit  the  snow-flakes  in  a  winter  storm, 
Seen  rather  than  distinguished.     Ah!  I  seem 
As  if  I  sat  within  a  helpless  bark 
By  swiftly  running  waters  hurried  on 
To  shoot  some  mighty  cliff.     Along  the  banks 
Grove  after  grove,  rock  after  frowning  rock, 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    COUNSEL.  329 

Bare  sands  and  pleasant  homes,  and  flowery  nooks, 
And  isles  and  whirlpools  in  the  stream,  appear 
Each  after  each,  but  the  devoted  skiff 
I  Darts  by  so  swiftly  that  their  images 
Dwell  not  upon  the  mind,  or  only  dwell 
In  dim  confusion  ;  faster  yet  I  sweep 
By  other  banks,  and  the  great  gulf  is  near. 

«  Wisely,  my  son,  while  yet  thy  days  are  long, 
And  this  fair  change  of  seasons  passes  slow, 
Gather  and  treasure  up  the  good  they  yield — 
-,  All  that  they  teach  of  virtue,  of  pure  thoughts 
And  kind  affections,  reverence  for  thy  God 
And  for  thy  brethren  ;  so  when  thou  shalt  come 
Into  these  barren  years,  thou  mayst  not  bring 
A  mind  unfurnished  and  a  withered  heart." 

Long  since  that  white-haired  ancient  slept — but  still, 
/    When  the  red  flower-buds  crowd  the  orchard  bough, 
And  the  ruffed  grouse  is  drumming  far  within 
The  woods,  his  venerable  form  again 
Is  at  my  side,  his  voice  is  in  my  ear. 


330  LATER    POEMS. 


LINES  IN  MEMORY  OF  WILLIAM  LEGGETT. 

THE  earth  may  ring,  from  shore  to  shore, 

With  echoes  of  a  glorious  name, 
But  he,  whose  loss  our  tears  deplore, 

Has  left  behind  him  more  than  fame. 

For  when  the  death-frost  came  to  lie 
On  Leggett's  warm  and  mighty  heart, 

And  quenched  his  bold  and  friendly  eye, 
His  spirit  did  not  all  depart. 

The  words  of  fire  that  from  his  pen 
-Were  flung  upon  the  fervent  page, 

Still  move,  still  shake  the  hearts  of  men, 
Amid  a  cold  and  coward  age. 

His  love  of  truth,  too  warm,  too  strong 
For  Hope  or  Fear  to  chain  or  chill, 

His  hate  of  tyranny  and  wrong, 

Burn  in  the  breasts  he  kindled  still. 


AN    EVENING    REVERY.  331 


AN  EVENING  REVERY. 

FROM   AX   UNFINISHED  POEM. 

THE  summer  day  is  closed — the  sun  is  set : 
Well  they  haye  done  their  office,  those  bright  hours, 
The  latest  of  whose  train  goes  softly  out 
In  the  red  West.     The  green  blade  of  the  ground 
Has  risen,  and  herds  have  cropped  it ;  the  young  twig 
Has  spread  its  plaited  tissues  to  the  sun ; 
Flowers  of  the  garden  and  the  waste  have  blown 
And  withered  ;  seeds  have  fallen  upon  the  soil, 
From  bursting  cells,  and  in  their  graves  await 
Their  resurrection.     Insects  from  the  pools 
Have  filled  the  air  awhile  with  humming  wings, 
That  now  are  still  for  ever ;  painted  moths 
Have  wandered  the  blue  sky,  and  died  again ; 
The  mother-bird  hath  broken  for  her  brood 
Their  prison  shell,  or  shoved  them  from  the  nest, 
Plumed  for  their  earliest  flight.     In  bright  alcoves, 
In  woodland  cottages  with  barky  walls, 
In  noisome  cells  of  the  tumultuous  town, 
Mothers  have  clasped  with  joy  the  new-born  babe. 


332  LATER    POEMS. 


Graves  by  the  lonely  forest,  by  the  shore 

'       "* 
Of  rivers  and  of  ocean,  by  the  ways 

Of  the  thronged  city,  have  been  hollowed  out 

And  filled,  and  closed.     This  day  hath  parted  friends 

That  ne'er  before  were  parted ;  it  hath  knit 

New  friendships  ;  it  hath  seen  the  maiden  plight 

Her  faith,  and  trust  her  peace  to  him  who  long 

Had  wooed  ;  and  it  hath  heard,  from  lips  which  late 

Were  eloquent  of  love,  the  first  harsh  word, 

That  told  the  wedded  one  her  peace  was;  flown. 

Farewell  to  the  sweet  sunshine  !     One  glad  day 

Is  added  now  to  Childhood's  merry  days, 

And  one  calm  day  to  those  of  quiet  Age. 

Still  the  fleet  hours  run  on ;  and  as  I  lean, 

Amid  the  thickening  darkness,  lamps  are  lit, 

By  those  who  watch  the  dead,  and  those  who  twine 

Flowers  for  the  bride.     The  mother  from  the  eyes 

Of  her  sick  infant  shades  the  painful  light, 

And  sadly  listens  to  his  quick-drawn  breath. 

Oh  thou  great  Movement  of  the  Universe, 
Or  Change,  or  Flight  of  Time — for  ye  are  one  ! 
That  bearest,  silently,  this  visible  scene 
Into  night's  shadow  and  the  streaming  rays 
Of  starlight,  whither  art  thou  bearing  me  ? 
I  feel  the  mighty  current,  sweep  me  on, 
Yet  know  not  whither.     Man  foretells  afar 


AN    EVENING    REVERY. 


The  courses  of  the  stars ;  the  very  hour 

He  knows  when  they  shall  darken  or  grow  bright ; 

Yet  doth  the  eclipse  of  Sorrow  and  of  Death 

Come  unforewarned.     Who  next,  of  those  I  love, 

Shall  pass  from  life,  or,  sadder  yet,  shall  fall 

From  virtue  ?    Strife  with  foes,  or  bitterer  strife 

With  friends,  or  shame  and  general  scorn  of  men — 

Which  who  can  bear  ? — or  the  fierce  rack  of  pain, 

Lie  they  within  my  path  ?     Or  shall  the  years 

Push  me,  with  soft  and  inoffensive  pace, 

Into  the  stilly  twilight  of  my  age  ? 

Or  do  the  portals  of  another  life 

Even  now,  while  I  am  glorying  in  my  strength, 

Impend  around  me  ?     Oh  !  beyond  that  bourne, 

In  the  vast  cycle  of  being  which  begins 

At  that  broad  threshold,  with  what  fairer  forms 

Shall  the  great  law  of  change  and  progress  clothe 

Its  workings  ?     Gently — so  have  good  men  taught — 

Gently,  and  without  grief,  the  old  shall  glide 

Into  the  new ;  the  eternal  flow  of  things, 

Like  a  bright  river  of  the  fields  of  heaven, 

Shall  journey  onward  in  perpetual  peace. 


334  LATER    POEMS. 


THE   PAINTED   CUP. 

«"*•"  "'•         .'     '"  i  •    ':         *  *  '  »-' 

THE  fresh  savannas  of  the  Sangamon 
Here  rise  in  gentle  swells,  and  the  long  grass 
Is  mixed  with  rustling  hazels.     Scarlet  tufts 
Are  glowing  in  the  green,  like  flakes  of  fire ; 
The  wanderers  of  the  prairie  know  them  well, 
And  call  that  brilliant  flower  the  Painted  Cup. 

Now,  if  thou  art  a  poet,  tell  me  not 
That  these  bright  chalices  were  tinted  thus 
To  hold  the  dew  for  fairies,  when  they  meet 
On  moonlight  evenings  in  the  hazel  bowers, 
And  dance  till  they  are  thirsty.     Call  not  up, 
Amid  this  fresh  and  virgin  solitude, 
The  faded  fancies  of  an  elder  world ; 
But  leave  these  scarlet  cups  to  spotted  moths 
Of  June,  and  glistening  flies,  and  humming-birds, 
To  drink  from,  when  on  all  these  boundless  lawns 
The  morning  sun  looks  hot.     Or  let  the  wind 
O'erturn  in  sport  their  ruddy  brims,  and  pour 
A  sudden  shower  upon  the  strawberry  plant, 


THE   PAINTED    CUP.  835 

To  swell  the  reddening  fruit  that  even  now 
Breathes  a  slight  fragrance  from  the  sunny  slope. 

But  thou  art  of  a  gayer  fancy.     Well — 
Let  then  the  gentle  Manitou  of  flowers, 
Lingering  amid  the  bloomy  waste  he  loves, 
Though  all  his  swarthy  worshippers  are  gone — 
Slender  and  small,  his  rounded  cheek  all  brown 
And  ruddy  with  the  sunshine  ;  let  him  come 
On  summer  mornings,  when  the  blossoms  wake, 
And  part  with  little  hands  the  spiky  grass ; 
And  touching,  with  his  cherry  lips,  the  edge 
Of  these  bright  beakers,  drain  the  gathered  dew 


836  LATER    POEMS. 


A  DREAM. 

I  HAD  a  dream — a  strange,  wild  dream — 

Said  a  dear  voice  at  early  light; 
And  even  yet  its  shadows  seem 

To  linger  in  my  waking  sight. 

Earth,  green  with  spring,  and  fresh  with  dew, 
And  bright  with  morn,  before  me  stood  ; 

And  airs  just  wakened  softly  blew 
On  the  young  blossoms  of  the  wood. 

Birds  sang  within  the  sprouting  shade, 
Bees  hummed  amid  the  whispering  grass, 

And  children  prattled  as  they  played 
Beside  the  rivulet's  dimpling  glass. 

Fast  climbed  the  sun:   the  flowers  were  flown, 
There  played  no  children  in  the  glen ; 

For  some  were  gone,  and  some  were  grown 
To  blooming  dames  and  bearded  men. 


A    DREAM.  337 


'Twas  noon,  'twas  summer:   I  beheld 
Woods  darkening  in  the  flush  of  day, 

And  that  bright  rivulet  spread  and  swelled, 
A  mighty  stream,  with  creek  and  bay. 

And  here  was  love,  and  there  was  strife, 
And  mirthful  shouts,  and  wrathful  cries, 

And  strong  men,  struggling  as  for  life, 
With  knotted  limbs  and  angry  eyes. 

Now  stooped  the  sun — the  shades  grew  thin  ; 

The  rustling  paths  were  piled  with  leaves  ; 
And  sunburnt  groups  were  gathering  in, 

From  the  shorn  field,  its  fruits  and  sheaves. 

The  river  heaved  with  sullen  sounds  ; 

The  chilly  wind  was  sad  with  moans  ; 
Black  hearses  passed,  and  burial-grounds 

Grew  thick  with  monumental  stones. 

Still  waned  the  day ;  the  wind  that  chased 
The  jagged  clouds  blew  chillier  yet; 

The  woods  were  stripped,  the  fields  were  waste ; 
The  wintry  sun  was  near  its  set. 

And  of  the  young,  and  strong,  and  fair, 
A  lonely  remnant,  gray  and  weak, 


2F 


338  LATER    POEMS. 

Lingered,  and  shivered  to  the  air 
Of  that  bleak  shore  and  water  bleak. 

Ah !  age  is  drear,  and  death  is  cold ! 

I  turned  to  thee,  for  thou  wert  near, 
And  saw  thee  withered,  bowed,  and  old, 

And  woke  all  faint  with  sudden  fear. 

'Twas  thus  I  heard  the  dreamer  say, 

And  bade  her  clear  her  clouded  brow ; 
"For  thou  and  I,  since  childhood's  day, 
Have  walked  in  such  a  dream  till  now. 

"Watch  we  in  calmness,  as  they  rise, 
The  changes  of  that  rapid  dream, 
And  note  its  lessons,  till  our  eyes 
Shall  open  in  the  morning  beam." 


THE    ANTIQUITY    OF    FREEDOM.  339 


THE  ANTIQUITY   OF   FREEDOM. 

HERE  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks  and  gnarled  pines, 
That  stream  with  gray-green  mosses  ;  here  the  ground 
Was  never  trenched  by  spade,  and  flowers  spring  up 
Unsown,  and  die  ungathered.     It  is  sweet 
To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds 
And  leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks,  and  winds 
That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter,  as  they  pass, 
A  fragrance  from  the  cedars,  thickly  set 
With  pale  blue  berries.     In  these  peaceful  shades — 
Peaceful,  unpruned,  immeasurably  old — 
My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of  years, 
Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  liberty. 

Oh  FREEDOM!  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man, 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou  ;  one  "mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword ;  thy  brow, 


340  LATER    POEMS. 


Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 

With  tokens  of  old  wars  ;  thy  massive  limbs 

Are  strong  with  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has  launched 

His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee ; 

They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from  heaven. 

Merciless  power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 

And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 

Have  forged  thy  chain ;  yet,  while  he  deems  thee  bound, 

The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison  walls 

Fall  outward ;  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 

As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 

And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 

Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

Thy  birthright  was  not  given  by  human  hands : 
Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.     In  pleasant  fields, 
While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 
His  only  foes  ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side, 
Soft  with  the  deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
Is  later  born  than  thou  ;  and  as  he  meets 


THE  ANTIQUITY   OF   FREEDOM.  341 

The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse  of  years, 
But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age; 
Feebler,  yet  subtler.     He  shall  weave  his  snares, 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 
His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,  wearing  fair  and  gallant  forms, 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm  thy  ear ;  while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth, 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread  on  thread 
That  grow  to  fetters ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 
With  chains  concealed  in  chaplets.     Oh  !  not  yet 
Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corslet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  sword  ;  nor  yet,  0  Freedom  !  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps, 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  earth  and  heaven.     But  wouldst  thou  rest 
Awhile  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men, 
These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 
Were  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth, 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were  new, 
Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 


2F2 


342  LATER    POEMS. 


THE   MAIDEN'S  SORROW. 

SEVEN  long  years  has  the  desert  rain 

Dropped  on  the  clods  that  hide  thy  face ; 

Seven  long  years  of  sorrow  and  pain 
I  have  thought  of  thy  burial-place. 

Thought  of  thy  fate  in  the  distant  west, 
Dying  with  none  that  loved  thee  near  ; 

They  who  flung  the  earth  on  thy  breast 
Turned  from  the  spot  without  a  tear. 

There,  I  think,  on  that  lonely  grave, 
Violets  spring  in  the  soft  May  shower ; 

There,  in  the  summer  breezes,  wave 
Crimson  phlox  and  moccasin  flower. 

There  the  turtles  alight,  and  there 
Feeds  with  her  fawn  the  timid  doe; 

There,  when  the  winter  woods  are  bare, 
Walks  the  wolf  on  the  crackling  snow. 


THE    MAIDEN'S    SORROW.  343 

Soon  wilt  thou  wipe  my  tears  away; 

All  my  task  upon  earth  is  done  ; 
My  poor  father,  old  and  gray, 

Slumbers  beneath  the  churchyard  stone. 

In  the  dreams  of  my  lonely  bed, 

Ever  thy  form  before  me  seems ; 
\11  night  long  I  talk  with  the  dead, 

All  day  long  I  think  of  my  dreams. 

This  deep  wound  that  bleeds  and  aches, 

This  long  pain,  a  sleepless  pain — 
When  the  Father  my  spirit  takes, 

I  shall  feel  it  no  more  again. 


344  LATER    POEMS. 


THE   RETUKN   OF   YOUTH. 

MY  friend,  thou  sorrowest  for  thy  golden  prime, 

For  thy  fair  youthful  years  too  swift  of  flight ;   . 
Thou  musest,  with  wet  eyes,  upon  the  time 

Of  cheerful  hopes  that  filled  the  world  with  light, — 
Years  when  thy  heart  was  bold,  thy  hand  was  strong, 

And  quick  the  thought  that  moved  thy  tongue  to  speak, 
And  willing  faith  was  thine,  and  scorn  of  wrong 

Summoned  the  sudden  crimson  to  thy  cheek. 

Thou  lookest  forward  on  the  coming  days, 

Shuddering  to  feel  their  shadow  o'er  thee  creep  ; 
A  path,  thick-set  with  changes  and  decays, 

Slopes  downward  to  the  place  of  common  sleep  ; 
And  they  who  walked  with  thee  in  life's  first  stage, 

Leave  one  by  one  thy  side,  and,  waiting  near, 
Thou  seest  the  sad  companions  of  thy  age — 

Dull  love  of  rest,  and  weariness  and  fear. 

Yet  grieve  thou  not,  nor  think  thy  youth  is  gone, 
Nor  deem  that  glorious  season  e'er  could  die. 


THE   RETURN   OF   YOUTH.  345 


Thy  pleasant  youth,  a  little  while  withdrawn, 
Waits  on  the  horizon  of  a  brighter  sky  ; 

Waits,  like  the  morn,  that  folds  her  wing  and  hides, 
Till  the  slow  stars  bring  back  her  dawning  hour ; 

Waits,  like  the  vanished  spring,  that  slumbering  bides 
Her  own  sweet  time  to  waken  bud  and  flower. 

There  shall  he  welcome  thee,  when  thou  shalt  stand 

On  his  bright  morning  hills,  with  smiles  more  sweet 
Than  when  at  first  he  took  thee  by  the  hand, 

Through  the  fair  earth  to  lead  thy  tender  feet. 
He  shall  bring  back,  but  brighter,  broader  still, 

Life's  early  glory  to  thine  eyes  again, 
Shall  clothe  thy  spirit  with  new  strength,  and  fill 

Thy  leaping  heart  with  warmer  love  than  then. 

Hast  thou  not  glimpses,  in  the  twilight  here, 

Of  mountains  where  immortal  morn  prevails  ? 
Comes  there  not,  through  the  silence,  to  thine  ear 

A  gentle  rustling  of  the  morning  gales  ; 
A  murmur,  wafted  from  that  glorious  shore, 

Of  streams  that  water  banks  for  ever  fair, 
And  voices  of  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 

More  musical  in  that  celestial  air  ? 


346  LATER    POEMS. 


A  HYMN   OF   THE   SEA. 

THE  sea  is  mighty,  but  a  mightier  sways 
His  restless  billows.     Thou,  whose  hands  have  scooped 
His  boundless  gulfs  and  built  his  shore,  thy  breath, 
That  moved  in  the  beginning  o'er  his  face, 
Moves  o'er  it  evermore.     The  obedient  waves 
To  its  strong  motion  roll,  and  rise  and  fall. 
Still  from  that  realm  of  rain  thy  cloud  goes  up, 
As  at  the  first,  to  water  the  great  earth, 
And  keep  her  valleys  green.     A  hundred  realms 
Watch  its  broad  shadow  warping  on  the  wind, 
And  in  the  dropping  shower,  with  gladness  hear 
Thy  promise  of  the  harvest.     I  look  forth 
Over  the  boundless  blue,  where  joyously 
The  bright  crests  of  innumerable  waves 
Glance  to  the  sun  at  once,  as  when  the  hands 
Of  a  great  multitude  are  upward  flung 
In  acclamation.     I  behold  the  ships 
Gliding  from  cape  to  cape,  from  isle  to  isle, 
Or  stemming  toward  far  lands,  or  hastening  home 
From  the  old  world.     It  is  thy  friendly  breeze 


A    HYMN    OF   THE    SEA.  347 

That  bears  them,  with  the  riches  of  the  land, 
And  treasure  of  dear  lives,  till,  in  the  port, 
The  shouting  seaman  climbs  and  furls  the  sail. 

But  who  shall  bide  thy  tempest,  who  shall  face 
The  blast  that  wakes  the  fury  of  the  sea  ? 
Oh  God  !  thy  justice  makes  the  world  turn  pale, 
When  on  the  armed  fleet,  that  royally 
Bears  down  the  surges,  carrying  war,  to  smite 
Some  city,  or  invade  some  thoughtless  realm, 
Descends  the  fierce  tornado.     The  vast  hulks 
Are  whirled  like  chaff  upon  the  waves;  the  sails 
Fly,  rent  like  webs  of  gossamer ;  the  masts 
Are  snapped  asunder ;  downward  from  the  decks, 
Downward  are  slung,  into  the  fathomless  gulf, 
Their  cruel  engines  ;  and  their  hosts,  arrayed 
In  trappings  of  the  battle-field,  are  whelmed 
By  whirlpools,  or  dashed  dead  upon  the  rocks. 
Then  stand  the  nations  still  with  awe,  and  pause, 
A  moment,  from  the  bloody  work  of  war. 

These  restless  surges  eat  away  the  shores 
Of  earth's  old  continents ;  the  fertile  plain 
Welters  in  shallows,  headlands  crumble  down, 
And  the  tide  drifts  the  sea-sand  in  the  streets 
Of  the  drowned  city.     Thou,  meanwhile,  afar 
In  the  green  chambers  of  the  middle  sea, 


348  LATER    POEMS. 

Where  broadest  spread  the  waters  and  the  line 

Sinks  deepest,  while  no  eye  beholds  thy  work, 

Creator !  thou  dost  teach  the  coral  worm 

To  lay  his  mighty  reefs.     From  age  to  age, 

He  builds  beneath  the  waters,  till,  at  last, 

His  bulwarks  overtop  the  brine,  and  check 

The  long  wave  rolling  from  the  southern  pole 

To  break  upon  Japan.     Thou  bid'st  the  fires, 

That  smoulder  under  ocean,  heave  on  high 

The  new-made  mountains,  and  uplift  their  peaks, 

A  place  of  refuge  for  the  storm-driven  bird. 

The  birds  and  wafting  billows  plant  the  rifts 

With  herb  and  tree  ;  sweet  fountains  gush ;  sweet  airs 

Ripple  the  living  lakes  that,  fringed  with  flowers, 

Are  gathered  in  the  hollows.     Thou  dost  look 

On  thy  creation  and  pronounce  it  good. 

Its  valleys,  glorious  with  their  summer  green, 

Praise  thee  in  silent  beauty,  and  its  woods, 

Swept  by  the  murmuring  winds  of  ocean,  joi* 

The  murmuring  shores  in  a  perpetual  hymn. 


NOON.  340 


NOON. 

FROM  AS   UNFINISHED   POJZM. 

'Tis  noon.     At  noon  the  Hebrew  bowed  the  knee 
And  worshipped,  while  the  husbandmen  withdrew 
From  the  scorched  field,  and  the  wayfaring  man 
Grew  faint,  and  turned  aside  by  bubbling  fount, 
Or  rested  in  the  shadow  of  the  palm. 

I,  too,  amid  the  overflow  of  day, 
Behold  the  power  which  wields  and  cherishes 
The  frame  of  Nature.     From  this  brow  of  rock 
That  overlooks  the  Hudson's  western  marge, 
I  gaze  upon  the  long  array  of  groves, 
The  piles  and  gulfs  of  verdure  drinking  in 
The  grateful  heats.     They  love  the  fiery  sun  ; 
Their  broadening  leaves  grow  glossier,  and  their  sprays 
Climb  as  he  looks  upon  them.     In  the  midst, 
The  swelling  river,  into  his  green  gulfs, 
Unshadowed  save  by  passing  sails  above, 
Takes  the  redundant  glory,  and  enjoys 
The  summer  in  his  chilly  bed.     Coy  flowers, 


350  LATER    POEMS. 


That  would  not  open  in  the  early  light, 

Push  back  their  plaited  sheaths.     The  rivulet's  pool, 

That  darkly  quivered  all  the  morning  long 

In  the  cool  shade,  now  glimmers  in  the  sun ; 

And  o'er  its  surface  shoots,  and  shoots  again, 

The  glittering  dragon-fly,  and  deep  within 

Run  the  brown  water-beetles  to  and  fro. 

A  silence,  the  brief  sabbath  of  an  hour, 
Reigns  o'er  the  fields  ;  the  laborer  sits  within 
His  dwelling ;  he  has  left  his  steers  awhile, 
Unyoked,  to  bite  the  herbage,  and  his  dog 
Sleeps  stretched  beside  the  door-stone  in  the  shade. 
Now  the  grey  marmot,  with  uplifted  paws, 
No  more  sits  listening  by  his  den,  but  steals 
Abroad,  in  safety,  to  the  clover  field, 
And  crops  its  juicy  blossoms.     All  the  while 
A  ceaseless  murmur  from  the  populous  town 
Swells  o'er  these  solitudes  :  a  mingled  sound 
Of  jarring  wheels,  and  iron  hoofs  that  clash 
Upon  the  stony  ways,  and  hammer-clang, 
And  creak  of  engines  lifting  ponderous  bulks, 
And  calls  and  cries,  and  tread  of  eager  feet, 
Innumerable,  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
Noon,  in  that  mighty  mart  of  nations,  brings 
No  pause  to  toil  and  care.     With  early  day 
Began  the  tumult,  and  shall  only  cease 


NOON.  851 


When  midnight,  hushing  one  by  one  the  sounds 
Of  bustle,  gathers  the  tired  brood  to  rest. 

Thus,  in  this  feverish  time,  when  love  of  gain 
And  luxury  possess  the  hearts  of  men, 
Thus  is  it  with  the  noon  of  human  life. 
We,  in  our  fervid  manhood,  in  our  strength 
Of  reason,  we,  with  hurry,  noise,  and  care, 
Plan,  toil,  and  strive,  and  pause  not  to  refresh 
Our  spirits  with  the  calm  and  beautiful 
Of  God's  harmonious  universe,  that  won 
Our  youthful  wonder ;  pause  not  to  inquiie 
Why  we  are  here ;  and  what  the  reverence 
Man  owes  to  man,  and  what  the  mystery 
That  links  us  to  the  greater  world,  beside 
Whose  borders  we  but  hover  for  a  space. 


352  LATER    POEMS. 


THE   CROWDED   STREET. 


LET  me  move  slowly  through  the  street, 
Filled  with  an  ever-shifting  train, 

Amid  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat 

The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  rain. 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come  ! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face  ; 
Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles,  and  some 

Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace. 

They  pass — to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest ; 

To  halls  in  which  the  feast  is  spread  ; 
To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 

In  silence  sits  beside  the  dead. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair, 

Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to  cheek, 

With  mute  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 


THE   CROWDED    STREET.  353 

And  some,  who  walk  in  calmness  here, 

Shall  shudder  as  they  reach  the  door 
Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling  dear, 

Its  flower,  its  light,  is  seen  no  more. 

Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  slender  frame, 
And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine  eye ! 

Goest  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 
Or  early  in  the  task  to  die  ? 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eager  brow ! 

Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare  ? 
Thy  golden  fortunes,  tower  they  now, 

Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air  ? 

Who  of  this  crowd  to-night  shall  tread 

The  dance  till  daylight  gleam  again  ? 
Who  sorrow  o'er  the  untimely  dead  ? 

Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal  pain  ? 

>      ' » 
Some,  famine-struck,  shall  think  how  long 

The  cold  dark  hours,  how  slow  the  light ! 
And  some,  who  flaunt  amid  the  throng, 

Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to-night. 

Each,  where  his  tasks  or  pleasures  call, 
They  pass,  and  heed  each  other  not. 


354  LATER    POEMS. 

There  is  who  heeds,  who  holds  them  all, 
In  his  large  love  and  boundless  thought. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life  that  seem 
In  wayward,  aimless  course  to  tend, 

Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 
That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 


THE    WHITE-FOOTED    DEER.  355 


THE  WHITE-FOOTED  DEEE. 

IT  was  a  hundred  years  ago, 
When,  by  the  woodland  ways, 

The  traveller  saw  the  wild  deer  drink, 
Or  crop  the  birchen  sprays. 

Beneath  a  hill,  whose  rocky  side 

O'erbrowed  a  grassy  mead, 
And  fenced  a  cottage  from  the  wind, 

A  deer  was  wont  to  feed. 

She  only  came  when  on  the  clifls 

The  evening  moonlight  lay, 
And  no  man  knew  the  secret  haunts 

In  which  she  walked  by  day. 

White  were  her  feet,  her  forehead  showed 

A  spot  of  silvery  white, 
That  seemed  to  glimmer  like  a  star 

In  autumn's  hazy  night. 


356  LATER    POEMS. 


And  here,  when  sang  the  whippoorwill, 
She  cropped  the  sprouting  leaves, 

And  here  her  rustling  steps  were  heard 
On  still  October  eves. 

But  when  the  broad  midsummer  moon 
Rose  o'er  that  grassy  lawn, 

Beside  the  silver-footed  deer 
There  grazed  a  spotted  fawn. 

The  cottage  dame  forbade  her  son 

To  aim  the  rifle  here  ; 
"It  were  a  sin,"  she  said,  "to  harm 
Or  fright  that  friendly  deer. 

"  This  spot  has  been  my  pleasant  home 

Ten  peaceful  years  and  more  ; 
And  ever,  when  the  moonlight  shines, 
She  feeds  before  our  door. 

"The  red  men  say  that  here  she  walked 

A  thousand  moons  ago  ; 
They  never  raise  the  war-whoop  here, 
And  never  twang  the  bow. 

"I  love  to  watch  her  as  she  feeds, 
And  think  that  all  is  well 


THE    WHITE-FOOTED    DEER.  357 

While  such  a  gentle  creature  haunts 
The  place  in  which  we  dwell." 

The  youth  obeyed,  and  sought  for  game 

In  forests  far  away, 
Where,  deep  in  silence  and  in  moss, 

The  ancient  woodland  lay. 

But  once,  in  autumn's  golden  time, 

He  ranged  the  wild  in  vain, 
Nor  roused  the  pheasant  nor  the  deer, 

And  wandered  home  again. 

The  crescent  moon  and  crimson  eve 

Shone  with  a  mingling  light ; 
The  deer,  upon  the  grassy  mead, 

Was  feeding  full  in  sight. 

He  raised  the  rifle  to  his  eye, 

And  from  the  cliffs  around 
A  sudden  echo,  shrill  and  sharp, 

Gave  back  its  deadly  sound. 

Away  into  the  neighbouring  wood 

The  startled  creature  flew, 
And  crimson  drops  at  morning  lay 

Amid  the  glimmering  dew. 


358  LATER    POEMS. 


Next  evening  shone  the  waxing  moon 

As  sweetly  as  before  ; 
The  deer  upon  the  grassy  mead 

Was  seen  again  no  more. 

But  ere  that  crescent  moon  was  old, 

By  night  the  red  men  came, 
And  ournt  the  cottage  to  the  ground, 

And  slew  the  youth  and  dame. 

Now  woods  have  overgrown  the  mead, 
And  hid  the  cliffs  from  sight ; 

There  shrieks  the  hovering  hawk  at  noon, 
And  prowls  the  fox  at  night. 


THE    WANING    MOON.  359 


THE  WANING  MOON. 

I'VE  watched  too  late  ;  the  morn  is  near ; 

One  look  at  God's  broad  silent  sky ! 
Oh,  hopes  and  wishes  vainly  dear, 

How  in  your  very  strength  ye  die ! 

Even  while  your  glow  is  on  the  cheek, 
And  scarce  the  high  pursuit  begun, 

The  heart  grows  faint,  the  hand  grows  weak, 
The  task  of  life  is  left  undone. 

See  where  upon  the  horizon's  brim, 
Lies  the  still  cloud  in  gloomy  bars ; 

The  waning  moon,  all  pale  and  dim, 
Goes  up  amid  the  eternal  stars. 

Late,  in  a  flood  of  tender  light, 

She  floated  through  the  ethereal  blue, 

A  softer  sun,  that  shone  all  night 
Upon  the  gathering  beads  of  dew. 

And  still  tliou  wanest,  pallid  moon! 
The  encroaching  shadow  grows  apace  ; 


360  LATER    POEMS. 

Heaven's  everlasting  watchers  soon 
Shall  see  thee  blotted  from  thy  place. 

Oh,  Night's  dethroned  and  crownless  queen ! 

Well  may  thy  sad,  expiring  ray 
Be  shed  on  those  whose  eyes  have  seen 

Hope's  glorious  visions  fade  away. 

Shine  thou  for  forms  that  once  were  bright, 
For  sages  in  the  mind's  eclipse, 

For  those  whose  words  were  spells  of  might, 
But  falter  now  on  stammering  lips ! 

In  thy  decaying  beam  there  lies 

Full  many  a  grave  on  hill  and  plain, 

Of  those  who  closed  their  dying  eyes 
In  grief  that  they  had  lived  in  vain. 

Another  night,  and  thou  among 

The  spheres  of  heaven  shalt  cease  to  shine, 
All  rayless  in  the  glittering  throng 

Whose  lustre  late  was  quenched  in  thine. 

Yet  soon  a  new  and  tender  light 

From  out  thy  darkened  orb  shall  beam, 

And  broaden  till  it  shines  all  night 

On  glistening  dew  and  glimmering  stream. 


THK    STREAM    OF    LIFE.  361 


THE   STREAM  OF  LIFE. 

f 

OH  silvery  streamlet  of  the  fields, 

That  flowest  full  and  free ! 
For  thee  the  rains  of  spring  return, 

The  summer  dews  for  thee  ; 
And  when  thy  latest  blossoms  die 

In  autumn's  chilly  showers, 
The  winter  fountains  gush  for  thee, 

Till  May  brings  back  the  flowers. 

Oh  Stream  of  Life  *   the  violet  springs 

But  once  beside  thy  bed  ; 
But  one  brief  summer,  on  thy  path, 

The  dews  of  heaven  are  shed. 
Thy  parent  fountains  shrink  away, 

And  close  their  crystal  veins, 
And  where  thy  glittering  current  flowed 

The  dust  alone  remains. 


211 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


Page  17. 

POEM    OF    THE    AGES. 

IN  this  poem,  written  and  first  printed  in  the  year  1821.  the 
author  has  endeavoured,  from  a  survey  of  the  past  ages  of  the 
world,  and  of  the  successive  advances  of  mankind  in  knowledge, 
virtue,  and  happiness,  to  justify  and  confirm  the  hopes  of  the 
philanthropist  for  the  future  destinies  of  the  human  race. 


Page  53. 

THE    BURIAL-PLACE. 

The  first  half  of  this  fragment  may  seem  to  the  reader  borrowed 
from  the  essay  on  Rural  Funerals  in  the  fourth  number  of  tho 
Sketch-Book.  The  lines  were,  however,  written  more  than  a 
year  before  that  number  appeared.  The  poem,  unfinished  as  it 
is,  would  not  have  been  admitted  into  this  collection,  had  not  the 
author  been  unwilling  to  lose  what  had  the  honour  of  resembling 
so  beautiful  a  composition. 


BH» 


••• 


366  NOTES. 


Page  69. 

THE    MASSACRE    AT    SCIO. 

This  poem,  written  about  the  time  of  the  horrible  butchery  of 
the  Sciotes  by  the  Turks,  in  1824,  has  been  more  fortunate  than 
most  poetical  predictions.  The  independence  of  the  Greek  nation, 
which  it  foretold,  has  come  to  pass,  and  the  massacre,  by  inspiring 
a  deeper  detestation  of  their  oppressors,  did  much  to  promote  thai 
event. 


Page  70. 
Her  maiden  veil,  her  own  black  hair,  &c. 

"  The  unmarried  females  have  a  modest  falling  clown  of  the 
hair  over  the  eyes." — ELIOT. 

Page  102. 

MONUMENT    MOUNTAIN. 

The  mountain,  called  by  this  name,  is  a  remarkable  precipice 
in  Great  Harrington,  overlooking  the  rich  and  picturesque  valley 
of  the  Housatonic,  in  the  western  part  of  Massachusetts.  At  the 
southern  extremity  is,  or  was  a  few  years  since,  a  conical  pile  of 
small  stones,  erected,  according  to  the  tradition  of  the  surrounding 
country,  by  the  Indians,  in  memory  of  a  woman  of  the  Stockbridge 
tribe,  who  killed  herself  by  leaping  from  the  edge  of  the  precipice. 
Until  within  a  few  years  past,  small  parties  of  that  tribe  used  to 
arrive  from  their  settlement  in  the  western  part  of  the  state  of 
New  York,  on  visits  to  Stockbridge,  the  place  of  their  nativity  and 
former  residence.  A  young  woman  belonging  to  one  of  these 
parties  related,  to  a  friend  of  the  author,  the  story  on  which  the 
poem  of  Monument  Mountain  is  founded.  An  Indian  girl  had 


NOTES.  367 


formed  an  attachment  for  her  cousin,  which,  according  to  the 
customs  of  the  tribe,  was  unlawful.  She  was,  in  consequence, 
seized  with  a  deep  melancholy,  and  resolved  to  destroy  herself. 
In  company  with  a  female  friend,  she  repaired  to  the  mountain, 
decked  out  for  the  occasion  in  all  her  ornaments,  and,  after  passing 
the  day  on  the  summit  in  singing  with  her  companion  the  tradi 
tional  songs  of  her  nation,  she  threw  herself  headlong  from  the 
rock,  and  was  killed. 


Page  120. 

THE    MURDERED    TRAVELLER. 

Some  years  since,  in  the  month  of  May,  the  remains  of  a  human 
body,  partly  devoured  by  wild  animals,  were  found  in  a  woody 
ravine,  near  a  solitary  road  passing  between  the  mountains  west 
of  the  village  of  Stockbridge.  It  was  supposed  that  the  person 
came  to  his  death  by  violence,  but  no  traces  could  be  discovered 
of  his  murderers.  It  was  only  recollected  that  one  evening,  in  the 
course  of  the  previous  winter,  a  traveller  had  stopped  at  an  inn  in 
the  village  of  West  Stockbridge ;  that  he  had  inquired  the  way  to 
Stockbridge ;  and  that,  in  paying  the  innkeeper  for  something  he 
had  ordered,  it  appeared  that  he  had  a  considerable  sum  of  money 
in  his  possession.  Two  ill-looking  men  were  present,  and  went 
out  about  the  same  time  that  the  traveller  proceeded  on  his  jour- 
•  ncy.  During  the  winter,  also,  two  men  of  shabby  appearance, 
'  but  plentifully  supplied  with  money,  had  lingered  for  awhile  about 
the  village  of  Stockbridge.  Several  years  afterward,  a  criminal, 
about  to  be  executed  for  a  capital  offence  in  Canada,  confessed  that 
he  had  been  concerned  in  murdering  a  traveller  in  Stockbridge  for 
the  sake  of  his  money.  Nothing  was  ever  discovered  respecting 
the  name  or  residence  of  the  person  murdered. 


368  NOTES. 


Page  168. 

Chained  in  the  marketplace  he  stood,  &c. 
The  story  of  the  African  Chief,  related  in  this  ballad,  may  be 
found  in  the  African  Repository  for  April,  1825.  The  subject  of 
it  was  a  wamor  of  majestic  stature,  the  brother  of  Yarradee,  king 
of  the  Solima  nation.  He  had  been  taken  in  battle,  and  was 
brought  in  chains  for  sale  to  the  Rio  Pongas,  where  he  was  exhi 
bited  in  the  market-place,  his  ankles  still  adorned  with  the  massy 
rings  of  gold  which  he  wore  when  captured.  The  refusal  of  his 
captor  to  listen  to  his  offers  of  ransom  drove  him  mad,  and  he  died 
a  maniac. 


Page  184. 

THE    CONJUNCTION    OF    JUPITER    AND    VENUS. 

This  conjunction  was  said  in  the  common  calendars  to  have 
taken  place  on  the  2d  of  August,  1826.  This,  I  believe,  was  an 
error,  but  the  apparent  approach  of  the  planets  was  sufficiently 
near  for  poetical  purposes. 

Page  193. 

THE    HURRICANE. 

This  poem  is  nearly  a  translation  from  one  by  Jose  Maria  de 
Heredia,  a  native  of  the  Island  of  Cuba,  who  published  at  New 
Fork,  six  or  seven  years  since,  a  volume  of  poems  in  the  Spanish 
language. 


NOTES.  309 


Page  19(>. 

SONNET WILLIAM    TKLL. 

Neither  this,  nor  any  of  the  other  sonnets  in  the  collection,  with 
the  exception  of  the  one  from  the  Portuguese,  is  framed  according 
to  the  legitimate  Italian  model,  which,  in  the  author's  opinion, 
possesses  no  peculiar  beauty  for  an  ear  accustomed  only  to  the 
metrical  forms  of  our  own  language.  The  sonnets  in  this  collec 
tion  are  rather  poems  in  fourteen  lines  than  sonnets. 

Page  197. 
The  slim  papaya  ripens,  &c. 

Papaya — papaw,  custard-apple.  Flint,  in  his  excellent  work 
on  the  Geography  and  History  of  the  Western  States,  thus  de 
scribes  this  tree  and  its  fruit : — 

"  A  papaw  shrub,  hanging  full  of  fruits,  of  a  size  and  weight 
so  disproportioned  to  the  stem,  and  from  under  long  and  rich- 
looking  leaves,  of  the  same  yellow  with  the  ripened  fruit,  and  of 
an  African  luxuriance  of  growth,  is  to  us  one  of  the  richest  spec 
tacles  that  we  have  ever  contemplated  in  the  array  of  the  woods. 
The  fruit  contains  from  two  to  six  seeds,  like  those  of  the  tamarind, 
except  that  they  are  double  the  size.  The  pulp  of  the  fruit  re 
sembles  egg-custard  in  consistence  and  appearance.  It  has  the 
same  creamy  feeling  in  the  mouth,  and  unites  the  taste  of  eggs, 
cream,  sugar,  and  spice.  It  is  a  natural  custard,  too  luscious  for 
the  relish  of  most  people." 

Chateaubriand,  in  his  Travels,  speaks  disparagingly  of  the  fruit 
of  the  papaw  ;  but  on  the  authority  of  Mr.  Flint,  who  must  know 
more  of  the  matter,  I  have  ventured  to  make  my  western  lover 
enumerate  it  among  the  delicacies  of  the  wilderness. 


370  NOTES. 


Page  218. 

The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye. 
The  prairies  of  the  West,  with  an  undulating  surface,  rolling 
prairies,  as  they  are  called,  present  to  the  unaccustomed  eye  a 
singular  spectacle  when  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  are  passing 
rapidly  over  them.  The  face  of  the  ground  seems  to  fluctuate  and 
toss  like  the  billows  of  the  sea. 


Page  218. 

The  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not. 

I  have  seen  the  prairie-hawk  balancing  himself  in  the  air  for 
hours  together,  apparently  over  the  same  spot ;  probably  watching 
his  prey. 


Page  220. 

These  ample  fields 
Nourished  their  harvests. 

The  size  and  extent  of  the  mounds  in  the  valley  of  the  Missis 
sippi,  indicate  the  existence,  at  a  remote  period,  of  a  nation  at 
once  populous  and  laborious,  and  therefore  probably  subsisting  by 
agriculture. 

Page  221. 

The  rude  conquerors 
Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs. 

Instances  are  not  wanting  of  generosity  like  this  among  the 
North  American  Indians  towards  a  captive  or  survivor  of  a  hostile 
tribe  on  which  the  greatest  cruelties  had  been  exercised. 


NOTES.  371 


Page  223. 

SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

The  exploits  of  General  Francis  Marion,  the  famous  partisan 
warrior  of  South  Carolina,  form  an  interesting  chapter  in  the  an 
nals  of  the  American  revolution.  The  British  troops  were  so 
harassed  by  the  irregular  and  successful  warfare  which  he  kept 
up  at  the  head  of  a  few  daring  followers,  that  they  sent  an  officer 
to  remonstrate  with  him  for  not  coming  into  the  open  field  and 
fighting  "  like  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian." 

Page  234. 

MARY    MAGDALEN. 

Several  learned  divines,  with  much  appearance  of  reason,  in 
particular  Dr.  Lardner,  have  maintained  that  the  common  notion 
respecting  the  dissolute  life  of  Mary  Magdalen  is  erroneous,  and 
that  she  was  always  a  person  of  excellent  character.  Charles 
Taylor,  the  editor  of  Calmet's  Dictionary  of  the  Bible,  takes  the 
same  view  of  the  subject. 

The  verses  of  the  Spanish  poet  here  translated  refer  to  the 
•*  woman  who  had  been  a  sinner,"  mentioned  in  the  seventh 
chapter  of  St.  Luke's  Gospel,  and  who  is  commonly  confounded 
with  Mary  Magdalen. 

Page  238. 

FATIMA    AND    RADUAN. 

This  and  the  following  poems  belong  to  that  class  of  ancient 
Spanish  ballads,  by  unknown  authors,  called  Romances  Monscos 
— Moriscan  romances  or  ballads.  They  were  composed  in  the 
14th  century,  some  of  them,  probably,  by  the  Moors,  who  then 


372  NOTES. 


lived  intermingled  with  the  Christians ;  and  they  relate  the  loves 
and  achievements  of  the  knights  of  Grenada. 


Page  240. 

LOVE    AND    FOLLY. (FROM   LA    FONTAINE.) 

This  is  rather  an  imitation  than  a  translation  of  the  poem  of  the 
graceful  French  fabulist. 

Page  245. 

These  eyes  shall  not  recall  thee,  &c. 

This   is  the  very  expression  of  the  original — No  te  llamaran 
mis  0/05,  &c.     The  Spanish  poets  early  adopted  the  practice  of 
calling  a  lady  by  the  name  of  the  most  expressive  feature  of  her 
countenance,   her  eyes.      The  lover  styled   his  mistress    "ojos 
bellos,"    beautiful   eyes;    "ojos  serenos,"    serene   eyes.      Green 
eyes    seem   to   have  been  anciently  thought  a  great   beauty  in 
Spain,  and  there  is  a  very  pretty  ballad  by  an  absent  lover,  in 
which  he  addressed  his  lady  by  the  title  of  "  green  eyes  ;"  sup 
plicating  that  he  may  remain  in  her  remembrance, 
i  Ay  ojuelos  verdes  ! 
Ay  los  mis  ojuelos  ! 
Ay,  hagan  los  cielos 
due  de  mi  te  acuerdes  ' 

Page  248. 

Say,  Love— for  thou  didst  see  her  tears,  &c. 
The    stanza   beginning   with    this    line    stands    thus   in  the 
original : — 


NOTES.  373 


Dilo  tu,  amor,  si  lo  viste ; 

i  Mas  ay  !  que  de  lastimado 
Diste  otro  nudo  a  la  vcnda, 

Para  no  ver  lo  que  ha  pasado. 

I  am  sorry  to  find  so  poor  a  conceit  deforming  so  spirited  a 
composition  as  this  old  ballad,  but  I  have  preserved  it  in  the 
version.  It  is  one  of  those  extravagances  which  aftenvard  be 
came  so  common  in  Spanish  poetry,  when  Gongora  introduced  the 
(ft  Ho  cnlto,  as  it  was  called. 


Page  250. 

LOVE    IN    THE    AGE    OF    CHIVALRY. 

This  personification  of  the  passion  of  Love,  by  Peyrc  Vidal,  has 
been  referred  to  as  a  proof  of  how  little  the  Proven9al  poets  were 
indebted  to  the  authors  of  Greece  and  Rome  for  the  imagery  of 
their  poems. 


Page  252. 

THE    LOVE    OF    GOD. (FROM    THE  PROVENCAL   OF  BERNARD  RASCAS.) 

The  original  of  these  lines  is  thus  given  by  John  of  Nostra 
damus,  in  his  lives  of  the  Troubadours,  in  a  barbarous  Frenchified 
orthography  : — 

Touta  kausa  mortala  una  fes  perira, 
Fors  que  1'amour  de  Dieu,  que  tousiours  durara. 
Tous  nostres  cors  vend  ran  cssuchs,  coma  fa  1'eska, 
Lous  Aubres  leyssaran  lour  verdour  tendra  e  frcsca, 
Lous  Auselets  del  bosc  perdran  lour  kant  subtyeu, 
E  non  s'auzira  plus  lou  Rossignol  gcntyeu. 
Lous  Buols  al  Pastourgage,  e  las  blankas  fcdcttas 
Sent'ran  lous  nirulhons  de  las  mortals  Sagettas, 

21 


374  NOTES. 


Lous  crestas  d' Aries  fiers,  Renards,  e  Loups  espars, 

Kabrols,  Cervys,  Chamous,  Senglars  de  toutes  pars, 

Lous  Ours  hardys  e  forts,  seran  poudra,  e  Arena, 

Lou  Daulphin  en  la  Mar,  lou  Ton,  e  la  Balena, 

Monstres  impetuous,  Ryaumes,  e  Comtas, 

Lous  Princes,  e  lous  Reys,  seran  per  mort  domtas. 

E  nota  ben  eysso  kuscurt  :  la  Terra  granda, 

(Ou  1'Escritura  ment)  lou  fermament  que  branda, 

Prendra  autra  figura.     Enfin  tout  perira, 

Fors  que  1'Amour  de  Dieu,  que  touiours  durara. 


Page  253. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH    OF    PEDRO    DE    CASTRO    Y   ANAYA. 

Las  Auroras  de  Diana,  in  which  the  original  of  these  lines  is 
contained,  is,  notwithstanding  it  was  praised  by  Lope  de  Vega, 
one  of  the  worst  of  the  old  Spanish  Romances,  being  a  tissue  of 
riddles  and  affectations,  with  now  and  then  a  little  poem  of  con 
siderable  beauty. 

Page  295. 

Where  Isar^s  clay-white  rivulets  run 

Through  the  dark  woods,  like  frighted  deer. 

Close  to  the  city  of  Munich,  in  Bavaria,  lies  the   spacious  and 

beautiful  pleasure  ground,  called  the  English  Garden,  in  which 

these  lines  were  written,  originally  projected  and  laid  out  by  our 

countryman,  Count  Rumford,  under  the  auspices  of  one  of  the 

sovereigns   of  the   country.      Winding   walks   of   great   extent, 

pass  through  close  thickets  and  groves  interspersed  with  lawns ; 

and  streams,  diverted  from  the  river  Isar,  traverse  the  grounds 

swiftly  in  various  directions,  the  water  of  which,  stained  with 


NOTES.  375 


the  clay  of  the  soil  it  has  corroded  in  its  descent  from  the  upper 
country,  is  frequently  of  a  turbid  white  colour. 


Page  302. 

THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS. 

This  song  refers  to  the  expedition  of  the  Vermonters,  com 
manded  by  Ethan  Allen,  by  whom  the  British  fort  of  Ticonderoga. 
on  Lake  Champlain,  was  surprised  and  taken,  in  May,  1775. 

Page  306. 

THE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL. 

The  incident  on  which  this  poem  is  founded  was  related  to 
the  author  while  in  Europe,  in  a  letter  from  an  English  lady.  A 
child  died  in  the  south  of  Italy,  and  when  they  went  to  bury  it 
they  found  it  revived  and  playing  with  the  flowers  which,  after 
the  manner  of  that  country,  had  been  brought  to  grace  its  funeral. 


Page  314. 
'  Tis  said,  when  Schiller' s  death  drew  nigh, 

The  wish  possessed  his  mighty  mind, 
To  wander  forth  wherever  lie 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  human  kind. 

Shortly  before  the  death  of  Schiller,  he  was  seized  with  r 
strong  desire  to  travel  in  foreign  countries,  as  if  his  spirit  had  a 
presentiment  of  its  approaching  enlargement,  and  already  longed 
to  expatiate  in  a  wider  and  more  varied  sphere  of  existence. 


376  NOTES. 


Page  317. 

Thejlower 

Of  Sanguinariatfrom  whose  brittle  stem 
The  red  drops  fell  like  blood. 

The  Sanguinaria  Canadensis,  or  blood-root,  as  it  is  commonly 
called,  bears  a  delicate  white  flower  of  a  musky  scent,  the  stem 
of  which  breaks  easily,  and  distils  a  juice  of  a  bright  red  colour. 


Page  326. 

The  shad-bush,  white  with  flowers, 
Whitened  the  glens. 

The  small  tree,  named  by  the  botanists  Jlronia  Botyrapium,  is 
called,  in  some  parts  of  our  country,  the  shad-bush,  from  the  cir 
cumstance  that  it  flowers  about  the  time  that  the  shad  ascend  the 
rivers  in  early  spring.  Its  delicate  sprays,  covered  with  white 
blossoms  before  the  trees  are  yet  in  leaf,  have  a  singularly  beanti 
ful  appearance  in  the  woods. 

Page  328. 
"  There  hast  thou,"  said  my  friend,  "  ajitting  type 

Of  human  life." 

I  remember  hearing  an  aged  man,  in  the  country,  compare  the 
slow  movement  of  time  in  early  life  and  its  swift  flight  as  it 
approaches  old  age,  to  the  drumming  of  a  partridge  or  ruffed 
grouse  in  the  woods — the  strokes  falling  slow  and  distinct  at  first, 
and  following  each  other  more  and  more  rapidly,  till  they  end  at 
last  in  a  whirring  sound. 


NOTES.  377 


Page  331. 

AN    EVENING    REVERY. FROM    AN    UNFINISHED    POEM. 

This  poem  and  that  entitled  the  Fountain,  with  one  or  two 
others  in  blank  verse,  were  intended  by  the  author  as  portions 
of  a  larger  poem,  in  which  they  may  hereafter  take  their  place. 

Page  334. 

The  fresh  savannas  of  the  Sangamon 
Here  rise  in  gentle  siuells,  and  the  long  grass 
Is  mixed  with  rustling  hazels.      Scarlet  tufts 
Are  gloimng  in  the  green,  like  flakes  of  fire. 
The  Painted  Cup,  Euchroma  Coccinca,  or  Bartsia  Coccinea, 
grows  in  great  abundance   in  the  hazel  prairies  of  the  western 
states,  when  its  scarlet  tufts  make  a  brilliant  appearance  in  the 
midst  of  the  verdure.     The  Sangamon  is  a  beautiful  river,  tribu 
tary  to  the  Illinois,  bordered  with  rich  prairies. 

Page  349. 

At  noon  the  Hebrew  bowed  the  knee 
And  worshipped 

Evening  and  morning,  and  at  noon,  will  I  pray  and  cry  aloud, 
and  he  shall  hear  my  voice. — PSALM  Iv.  17. 

Page  355. 

THE    WHITE-FOOTED    DEER. 

During  the  stay  of  Long's  Expedition  at  Engineer  Cantonment, 
three  specimens  of  a  variety  of  the  common  deer  were  brought  in, 
having  all  the  feet  white  near  the  hoofs,  and  extending  to  those  on 


2  i  C 


378  NOTES. 


the  hind  feet  from  a  little  above  the  spurious  hoofs.  This  white 
extremity  was  divided,  upon  the  sides  of  the  foot,  by  the  general 
colour  of  the  leg,  which  extends  down  near  to  the  hoofs,  leaving- a 
white  triangle  in  front,  of  which  the  point  was  elevated  rather 
higher  than  the  spurious  hoofs. — GODMAN'S  NATURAL  HISTORY. 
vol.  ii.  p.  314. 


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